"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."
"What secret is that?" asked Brown, peering at him intently through the dim light, where he swayed in the corner with every jolt of the taxi.
"Sorry, m'dear fellow. Mussn' ask me that. Gotta tell Major n'no one else."
"But I am the Major's confidential—"
"Sorry. You'll 'scuse me, 'm'sure. Can't talk Misser Brow!—'gret 'ceedingly 'cessity reticence. Unnerstan'?"
The taxi stopped before a vaguely lighted saloon on Fifty-ninth Street east of Fifth Avenue. McKay opened his eyes, looked around him in the bitter darkness, stumbled out into the snow on Brown's arm.
"A quiet, cosy little cafe," said Brown, "where I don't mind joining you in something hot before dinner."
"Thasso? Fine! Hot Scotch we' good 'n'cold day. We'll havva l'il drink keep us warm 'n'snug."