Falconer was silent.

“And nobody at Cook’s paid out any money on her letter of credit—­or cashed any express checks for her.  Where did that money come from that was sent back to the hotel?”

“But what is the point of all this?”

“That’s what I just particularly don’t know....  But it needs looking into.”

Falconer favored him with a level scrutiny.  “How long have you known Miss Beecher?”

“I met her the night before last.  That, however, doesn’t enter into the case.”

“It would seem to me that it might.”

“Between three days and three weeks,” said Billy, remembering something, “the difference is sometimes no greater than between Tweedledum and Tweedledee.”  He smiled humorously at the other young man, a frank, likeable smile that softened magically the bluntness of his young mouth.  “That’s why I came to you.  You are the only soul I know to be interested in Miss Beecher’s welfare.  The Evershams are off up the Nile—­and they’d probably be helpless, anyway.  Besides, you know more about this blamed Egypt of yours than I do....  Have you any idea where she went yesterday afternoon?”

“Not at all.”

“Neither have the Evershams.  They were surprised when I asked them about it this morning.  They didn’t know she was going.  Now she went somewhere in a limousine——­”

“Probably to the station.”

“American girls don’t go to stations in floating white clothes and hats all pink roses.  I particularly remember the pink rose,” said Billy gloomily.  “No, if she had been going to the station she would have had on a little blue or gray suit, very up and down, and a little minute of a hat with just one perky feather.  And she’d have a bag of sorts with her—­no girl would rush away to Alexandria without a bag.”

“She could have sent it ahead of her or returned and dressed later for the station.”

“Why the mischief did I tramp off to those bazaars?” said the young American.  “But, see here—­weren’t you around the hotel after that yesterday—­at tea time?”

“Er—­yes—­I——­”

“And weren’t you rather looking out for Miss Beecher?  Wouldn’t you have noticed if she had been coming or going?”

Falconer stroked his small mustache and shot a look at Billy out of the corners of his eyes which expressed his distinct annoyance at these intrusive demands.

“I don’t remember to have met you,” said he slowly.

“You haven’t.  I know your name, but you don’t know mine.  I am William B. Hill.”

“Ah—­Behill.”

“No—­B. Hill.  The B is an initial.”

“Of what?” said the other casually, and Billy’s cheeks grew suddenly warm.

“Of my middle name,” said he, with steady composure.  “If we are to do any team-work you will have to let it go at the William and the Hill.”

“What team-work do you suggest?”