“I asked you how long ago you escaped from Holzminden camp?” repeated the girl, very pale.

“Who told you I had ever been there?—­wherever that is!”

“You were there as a prisoner, were you not, Mr. McKay?”

“Where is that place?”

“In Germany on the River Weser.  You were detained there under pretence of being an Englishman before we declared war on Germany.  After we declared war they held you as a matter of course.”

There was an ugly look in his eyes, now:  “You seem to know a great deal about a drunkard you picked up in the snow near the Plaza fountain last night.”

“Please don’t speak so bitterly.”

Quite unconsciously her gloved hand crept up on her fur coat until it rested over her heart, pressing slightly against her breast.  Neither spoke for a few moments.  Then: 

“I do know something about you, Mr. McKay,” she said.  “Among other things I know that—­that if you have become—­become intemperate—­it is not your fault....  That was vile of them-unutterably wicked-to do what they did to you—­”

“Who are you?” he burst out.  “Where have you learned-heard such things?  Did I babble all this?”

“You did not utter a sound!”

“Then—­in God’s name—­”

“Oh, yes, yes!” she murmured, “in God’s name.  That is why you and I are here together—­in God’s name and by His grace.  Do you know He wrought a miracle for you and me—­here in New York, in these last hours of this dreadful year that is dying very fast now?

“Do you know what that miracle is?  Yes, it’s partly the fact that you did not die last night out there on the street.  Thirteen degrees below zero! ...  And you did not die....  And the other part of the miracle is that I of all people in the world should have found you!...  That is our miracle.”

Somehow he divined that the girl did not mean the mere saving of his life had been part of this miracle.  But she had meant that, too, without realising she meant it.

“Who are you?” he asked very quietly.

“I’ll tell you:  I am Evelyn Erith, a volunteer in the C. E. D. Service of the United States.”

He drew a deep breath, sank down on his elbow, and rested his head on the pillow.

“Still I don’t see how you know,” he said.  “I mean—­the beastly details—­”

“I’ll tell you some time.  I read the history of your case in an intercepted cipher letter.  Before the German agent here had received and decoded it he was arrested by an agent of another Service.  If there is anything more to be learned from him it will be extracted.

“But of all men on earth you are the one man I wanted to find.  There is the miracle:  I found you!  Even now I can scarcely force myself to believe it is really you.”

The faintest flicker touched his eyes.

“What did you want of me?” he inquired.

“Help.”

“Help?  From such a man as I?  What sort of help do you expect from a drunkard?”