had already disclosed, boasted no more volubly about the "great
secret," as he called it.

Now and then he recollected himself and inquired for the "Major,"
but a drink always sidetracked him.

It was evident, too, that Brown was becoming uneasy and impatient to
the verge of exasperation, and that he was finally coming to the
conclusion that he could do nothing with the man McKay as far as
pumping was concerned.

Twice, on pretexts, he left McKay alone in the small room and went
into the cafe, where his two companions of the Hotel Astor were
seated at a table, discussing sardine sandwiches and dark brew.

"I can't get a damned thing out of him," he said in a low voice.
"Who the hell he is and where he comes from is past me. Had I better
fix him and take his key?"

"Yess," nodded one of the other men, "it iss perhaps better that we
search now his luggage in his room."

"I guess that's all we can hope for from this guy. Say! He's a clam.
And he may be only a jazzer at that."

"He comes on the Peer Gynt this morning. We shall not forget that
alretty, nor how he iss calling at those telephones all afternoon."

"He may be a nosey newspaper man--just a fresh souse," said Brown.
"All the same I think I'll fix him and we'll go see what he's got in