Hours later McKay seemed to be no more intoxicated than he had been; no more loquacious or indiscreet. He had added nothing to what he 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 manjust a fresh souse," said Brown. "All the same I think I'll fix him and we'll go see what he's got in his room."
The two men rose, paid their reckoning, and went out; Brown returned to the small room, where McKay sat at the table with his curly brown head buried in his arms.
He did not look up immediately when Brown returnedtime for the latter to dose the steaming tumbler at the man's elbow, and slip the little bottle back into his pocket.
Then, thinking McKay might be asleep, he nudged him, and the young man lifted his marred and dissipated visage and extended one hand for his glass.
They both drank.
"Wheresa Major?" inquired McKay. "Gotta see him rightaway. Great secreksh"
"Take a nap. You're tired."
"Yess'm all in," muttered the other. "Had a hard timeprisonerthreethree months hiding" His head fell on his arms again.
Brown rose from his chair, bent over him, remained poised above his shoulder for a few moments. Then he coolly took the key from McKay's overcoat pocket and very deftly continued the search, in spite of the drowsy restlessness of the other.
But there were no papers, no keys, only a cheque-book and a wallet packed with new banknotes and some foreign gold and silver. Brown merely read the name written in the new cheque-book but did not take it or the money.
Then, his business with McKay being finished, he went out, paid the reckoning, tipped the waiter generously, and said:
"My friend wants to sleep for half an hour. Let him alone until I come back for him."
Brown had been gone only a few moments when McKay lifted his head from his arms with a jerk, looked around him blindly, got to his feet and appeared in the cafe doorway, swaying on unsteady legs.
"Gotta see the Major!" he said thickly. "'M'not qui' well. Gotta"
The waiter attempted to quiet him, but McKay continued on toward the door, muttering that he had to find the Major and that he was not feeling well.
They let him go out into the freezing darkness. Between the saloon and the Plaza Circle he fell twice on the ice, but contrived to find his feet again and lurch on through the deserted street and square.
The black cold that held the city in its iron grip had driven men and vehicles from the streets. On Fifth Avenue scarcely a moving light was to be seen; under the fuel-conservation order, club, hotel and private mansion were unlighted at that hour. The vast marble mass of the Plaza Hotel loomed enormous against the sky; the New Netherlands, the Savoy, the Metropolitan Club, the great Vanderbilt mansion, were darkened. Only a few ice-dimmed lamps clustered around the Plaza fountain, where the bronze goddess, with her basket of ice, made a graceful and shadowy figure under the stars.
The young man was feeling very ill now. His fur overcoat had become unbuttoned and the bitter wind that blew across the Park seemed to benumb his body and fetter his limbs so that he could barely keep his feet.
He had managed to cross Fifth Avenue, somehow; but now he stumbled against the stone balustrade which surrounds the fountain, and he rested there, striving to keep his feet.
Blindness, then deafness possessed him. Stupefied, instinct still aided him automatically in his customary habit of fighting; he strove to beat back the mounting waves of lethargy; half-conscious, he still fought for consciousness.
After a while his hat fell off. He was on his knees now, huddled under his overcoat, his left shoulder resting against the balustrade. Twice one arm moved as though seeking something. It was the mind's last protest against the betrayal of the body. Then the body became still, although the soul still lingered within it.
But now it had become a question of minutesnot many minutes. Fate had knocked him out; Destiny was counting him outhad nearly finished counting. Then Chance stepped into the squared circle of Life. And Kay McKay was in a very bad way indeed when a coupe, speeding northward through the bitter night, suddenly veered westward, ran in to the curb, and stopped; and Miss Erith's chauffeur turned in his seat at the wheel to peer back through the glass at his mistress, whose signal he had just obeyed.
Then he scrambled out of his seat and came around to the door, just as Miss Erith opened it and hurriedly descended.
"Wayland," she said, "there's somebody over there on the sidewalk. Can't you see?there by the marble railing?by the fountain! Whoever it is will freeze to death. Please go over and see what is the matter."
The heavily-furred chauffeur ran across the snowy oval. Miss Erith saw him lean over the shadowy, prostrate figure, shake it; then she hurried over too, and saw a man, crouching, fallen forward on his face beside the snowy balustrade.
Down on her knees in the snow beside him dropped Miss Erith, calling on Wayland to light a match.
"Is he dead, Miss?"
"No. Listen to him breathe! He's ill. Can't you hear the dreadful sounds he makes? Try to lift him, if you can. He's freezing here!"
"I'm thinkin' he's just drunk an' snorin,' Miss."
"What of it? He's freezing, too. Carry him to the carl."
Wayland leaned down, put both big arms under the shoulders of the unconscious man, and dragged him, upright, holding him by main strength.
"He's drunk, all right, Miss," the chauffeur remarked with a sniff of disgust.
That he had been drinking was evident enough to Miss Erith now. She picked up his hat; a straggling yellow light from the ice-bound lamps fell on McKay's battered features.
"Get him into the car," she said, "he'll die out here in this cold."
The big chauffeur half-carried, half-dragged the inanimate man to the car and lifted him in. Miss Erith followed.
"The Samaritan Hospitalthat's the nearest," she said hastily. "Drive as fast as you can, Wayland."
McKay had slid to the floor of the coupe; Miss Erith turned on the ceiling light, drew the fur robe around him, and lifted his head to her knees, holding it there supported between her gloved hands.
The light fell full on his bruised visage, on the crisp brown hair dusted with snow, which lay so lightly on his temples, making him seem very frail and boyish in his deathly pallor.
His breathing grew heavier, more laboured; the coupe reeked with the stench of alcohol; and Miss Erith, feeling almost faint, opened the window a little way, then wrapped the young man's head in the skirt of her fur coat and covered his icy hands with her own.