"Why, Mr. McTaggart, I've heard of you often enough. Where did we meet? And as for the real name"—he winked—"less said the better! I'm in the Foreign Office just now. I'm from Bogotar ... How come? When did we meet?"
"In the Savoy bar," hushed the Angel hurriedly into McTaggart's ear.
"In the Savoy bar," said McTaggart, aloud.
"Not during the Bullingdon case?" said the delighted but indiscreet Mr. so-called Collop, stretching out both his hands.
"Wink!" pumped the Angel; and Hamish McTaggart winked—for the first time in his life.
It was a clumsy wink, rather like that of the hippopotamus when he comes out of the water, in which element the huge pachyderm so serenely sleeps. But it was good enough for the Secret Service.
"Ah! Mr. McTaggart, Mr. McTaggart!" said Collop, shaking both the journalist's hands up and down like pump handles. "Well met! Now then, you'll make a feature of this in the paper, won't you?"
"I'm not here for that," said McTaggart modestly. "I'm only a guest; but of course I can see that The Howl ..."
"Ah! That's the style, laddie! You'll do!" said the Man of Mystery, bringing down a palm like a Westphalian ham on the wincing shoulder of the youth. "A few kind words on the discreet agent, eh? The Bosses'll note 'em down!" He dived into a pocket. "I've got a flask here!" he said, and winked in his turn. "What I call my good old prohibition! We'll drink to it, eh? To think of meeting the likes of you in a 'ouse like this!"
This last remark wounded McTaggart's pride; but the Angel stood by him, and they that have angels at their side are firm.