"Not here," murmured Brown. "I'm not in uniform, but I'm known."

"Quite so. Unnerstan' perfec'ly. Won'do. No."

"Had you thought of dressing for dinner?" inquired Mr. Brown
carelessly.

McKay nodded, went over to the desk and got his key. But when he
returned to Brown he only laughed and shoved the key into his
pocket.

"Forgot," he explained. "Just came over. Haven't any clothes. Got
these in Christiania. Ellis Island style. 'S'all I've got. Good
overcoat though." He fumbled at his fur coat as he stood there,
slightly swaying.

"We'll get a drink where I'm not known," said Brown. "I'll find a
taxi."

"Ve' kind," murmured McKay, following him unsteadily to the swinging
doors that opened on Long Acre, now so dimly lighted that it was
scarcely recognisable.

An icy blast greeted them from the darkness, refreshing McKay for a
moment; but in the freezing taxi he sank back as though weary,
pulling his beaver coat around him and closing his battered eyes.

"Had a hard time," he muttered. "Feel done in. ... Prisoner. .. .
Gottaway. . . . Three months making Dutch border.... Hell. Tell
Major all 'bout it. Great secret."