Her immense practicality refused to be embarrassed in the least.  Feeling immensely foolish Billy accepted hers, but then he discovered his own handkerchief and stuffed hers away into his pocket.

“You’re a trump,” he said heartily.  “And it’s all right now—­all but the swelling, I suppose.”  He sounded rueful.  He had remembered his engagement for the evening.

Her head a little aslant, the girl regarded him critically.  “N-no, it doesn’t seem to be swelling,” she observed.  “Of course it’s a little red but that will pass.”

They were walking side by side out of the narrow street and now, on a crowded corner, they paused and looked around.  “I left Miss Falconer at the Maltese laces,” she murmured, and to the laces they turned their steps.

Miss Falconer was still bargaining.  She was a middle aged lady, Roman nosed and sandy-haired, and she brought to Billy in a rush the realization that she was “sister” and the girl was Lady Claire Montfort.  The story of the encounter and Billy’s hero part, related by Lady Claire, appeared most disturbing to the chaperon.

“How awkward—­how very awkward,” she murmured, several times, and Billy gathered from her covert glance upon him that part of the awkwardness consisted in being saddled with his acquaintance.  Then, “Very nice of you, I’m sure,” she added.  “I hope the creature isn’t lingering about somewhere....  We’d better take a cab, Claire—­I’m sure we’re late for tea.”

“Let me find one,” said Billy dutifully, and charging into the medley of vehicles he brought forth a victoria with what appeared to be the least villainous looking driver and handed in the ladies.

“Savoy Hotel, isn’t it?” he added thoughtlessly, and both ladies’ countenances interrogated him with a varying nuance of question.

“I remember noticing you,” he hastily explained.  “I’m not exactly a private detective, you know,”—­the assurance seemed to leave Miss Falconer cold—­“but I do remember people.  And then I heard you spoken of by Miss Beecher.”

The name acted curiously upon them.  They looked at each other.  Then they looked at Billy.  Miss Falconer spoke.

“Perhaps we can drop you at your hotel,” said she.  “Won’t you get in?”

He got in, facing them a little ruefully with his damaged countenance, and subtly aware that this accession of friendliness was not a gush of airy impulse.

“You know Miss Beecher then?” said Miss Falconer with brisk directness.

“Slightly,” he said aloud.  To himself he added, “So far.”

“Ah—­in America?”

“No, in Cairo.”

Miss Falconer looked disappointed.  “But perhaps you know her family?”

“No,” said Billy.  He added humorously, “But I’ll wager I could guess them all right.”

“Can you Americans do that for one another?  That is more than we can venture to do for you,” said the lady, and Billy was aware of irony.