"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."