“Zut!  A man does not risk his neck for a matter of indifference!” said the little Baroff sagely, her knowing eyes on Billy’s grim young face.  “So I am to be the sister to you—­the Platonic friend—­h’m?” she observed with droll resignation.  “Never mind—­I will help you get her out as you got me—­Gott sei dank! There is a way, I think—­if you are not too particular about that neck.  I will tell you all and draw you a plan when we get to a hotel.”

But before they got to a hotel there was an obstacle or two to be overcome.  A lady in Mohammedan wraps might not be exactly persona grata at fashionable hotels at midnight.  Casting off the wrap Fritzi revealed herself in a little pongee frock that appeared to be suitable for traveling, and with two veils and Billy’s cap for a foundation she produced an effect of headgear not unlike that of some bedraped tourists.

“I arrived on the night train,” she stated as they drew up before the shining hotel.  “It is late now for that night train—­but we waited for my luggage, which you will observe is lost.  So I pay for my room in the advance—­I think you had better give me some money for that—­I have nothing but these,” and she indicated her flashing diamonds.

“My name,” said Billy, handing over some sovereigns with the first ray of humor since her revelation to him, “my name, if you should care to address me, is Hill—­William B. Hill.”

“William B. Hill,” she echoed with an air of elaborate precision, and then flashed a saucy smile at him as he helped her out of the carriage.  “What you call Billy, eh?”

“You’ve got it,” he replied in resignation.

“Hill—­that means a mountain,” she commented.  “A mountain of good luck for me—­h’m?  And that B—­what is that for?”

“My middle name,” said Billy patiently, as they reached the door the Arab doorman was holding open for them.

Absently she laughed.  Her dark eyes were sparkling at the vision of the safe and shining hotel, the dear familiar luxury, the sounds and sights of her lost Continental life.  A few late arrivals from some dance gave a touch of animation to the wide rooms, and Fritzi’s eyes clung delightedly to the group.

“God, how happy I am!” she sighed.

Billy was busy avoiding the clerk’s knowing scrutiny.  It was the same clerk he had coerced with real cigars to enlighten him concerning Arlee Beecher, and he felt that that clerk was thinking things about him now, mistaken and misguided things, about his predilections for the ladies.  Philosophically he wondered where they had better try after this.

But he underestimated the battery of Fritzi’s charms, or else the serene assurance of her manner.