It was nine o’clock when Miss Campbell and the girls bade each other a final good night. They had talked the matter of Evelyn Stone to shreds and ribbons, but Miss Campbell was determined not to interfere.

“My dear children, you are young and romantic girls, and I am a hardened old woman, and from my knowledge of the world, I assure you it would be unpardonable for us to thrust ourselves into this strictly family matter. Miss Stone evidently doesn’t want to marry Daniel Moore, or she never would have consented to marry that flint-like person named Ebenezer. No one can be coerced into marriage these days,” she added emphatically, as if attempts were being made to force her into an unhappy marriage.

When Miss Campbell once and for all vetoed a question under consideration, the Motor Maids knew that the case was settled and there was no further appeal. Therefore, when those two intrepid fighters in all difficult battles, Nancy and Billie, retired to their bedrooms, their faces wore the downcast expression of the conquered. Nancy pressed a button which illuminated all the electric lights in the room, including four at the dressing table and a cluster in the center. Then she began silently examining a brown freckle on the end of her pretty nose. Billie sat near the open window in her favorite position, her hands clasping her knees. Nancy’s examining her freckle in the mirror was also a favorite position. The freckle, like the immovable cloud in the heavens at Terre del Fuego, was a permanent spot on Nancy’s physiognomy. When she examined it most closely she was thinking deeply, not of the freckle, but of something else. Billie also was immersed in meditation. Her brow was wrinkled—a danger signal with her. She was about to disobey.

“Nancy-Bell, I’ll do it,” she burst out at last.

“Well, why don’t you?” answered Nancy, not unprepared for the declaration.

“Have you guessed what it is?”

Nancy pointed silently to the telephone.

“You’re a mind reader, Nancy-Bell,” exclaimed the other in admiration.

“It isn’t much to read your mind,” answered her friend, not intending to be uncomplimentary. “Your eyes have been glued to the reflection of the telephone in the mirror for the last five minutes.”

“What shall I say to her, Nancy, dearest?”

Before Nancy could reply, she carefully removed her best frock and laid it away. Then she stretched herself on the bed. Nothing would induce her to lie down in that cherished garment.

“Say?” she began, stretching herself out comfortably. “Say—well—say ‘have you forgotten Fontainebleau?’”

“The very thing,” replied Billie. “She doesn’t know my name, of course. I might say—‘have you forgotten Prairie Inn? That was where we met her, and it wouldn’t involve Daniel. I think she’s down on him, Nancy. It’s a shame, poor fellow.”

“I imagine,” continued Nancy reflectively, “that she will go to her room early. She didn’t look as if she cared to linger in the company of Ebenezer. Perhaps they will stay down and smoke some of those big black cigars like that stony man was smoking when we first saw him. If you want to catch her alone, you’d better try her now, Billie.”

Billie rose and moved slowly toward the telephone.

“It’s against orders,” she said at last, with an expression not unlike a bad little boy’s.

“I know it,” said Nancy, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“And it may get us into a peck of trouble,” went on Billie. “Will you stand by me, Nancy?”

“Did I ever fail you, Billie?”

“Never, Nancy-Bell; and it was an insult to your honor to have asked the question. Well, here goes.”

Billie marched to the telephone, and, with heroic decision, put the receiver to her ear.

“Miss Evelyn Stone’s room,” she said. “What’s that? Not allowed to call her up? Oh, very well. I’ll give my name—Miss Wilhelmina Campbell—an old friend—here for a few days.” She placed one hand over the mouthpiece and blinked at Nancy. “Shall I say Fontainebleau or Prairie Inn?” she called softly to Nancy, who, lying on her back on the bed, continued to peruse the brown spot on her nose by means of a small hand mirror.

“Prairie Inn,” said Nancy. “No—no, better say Fontainebleau. The father was at Prairie Inn.”

“Old Fontainebleau friend——” Billie called over the telephone. Then she put up the receiver. “The clerk will call us when he has delivered the message,” she explained. “But I’m scared, Nancy. I have a premonition of evil.”

The two girls waited breathlessly for five minutes. The telephone bell rang out.

Billie sprang to the receiver.

“Hello,” she said softly.

Then she turned quite pale, and placing her hand over the mouthpiece, she whispered: “It’s old Stony-face. Come quick. You can hear.”

Even across the room Nancy caught some of those vibrant base tones, and with her ear against the telephone, she heard every word he said.

“A friend of my daughter’s, you say? An old school friend, eh? Humph——”

Billie had not said that, but she made no denial.

“Campbell the name. Are you aware that my daughter is about to be married?”

“Oh, yes,” called Billie. “That’s why I wanted to see her. I—er—you know——”

She broke off lamely.

“Oh, Nancy, what shall I say? I’m so frightened.”

Nancy had a brilliant idea, and one most characteristic.

“The trousseau,” she hissed.

“I do so want to see her trousseau,” Billie repeated.

There was a deep laugh, which shook the wires like the roar of a lion.

“Girls are all alike,” he said. “They love finery. Evelyn has got the finest trousseau that money can buy. I suppose you have heard of it. I’ll have you connected with her room.”

Evidently, Mr. John James Stone had spoken to Wilhelmina from the office, where he had made careful inquiries: five ladies in a motor car registering from the East; chaperone very distinguished looking.

Billie waited at the telephone. The ordeal of conversing with John James Stone had brought beads of moisture to her forehead. But she was still not sure that the danger was over. A man like that would be capable of keeping himself connected so as to overhear the conversation. The notion flashed into her mind, just as a sweet voice said, “Yes?” and she determined to take no chances.

“Is this Miss Stone?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“This is Wilhelmina Campbell”—there was a long pause—“Billie Campbell,” she repeated. “Evelyn, have you forgotten that day at Fontainebleau?”

Billie had played her trump card now. There was nothing else she could do. But she was glad she had not mentioned Prairie Inn, for instantly the bass voice interrupted with—“I thought you said school friend?”

“How angry she must be,” thought Billie, “to have her father eavesdrop on her like this.”

Evelyn did not pause this time.

“How very nice to see you again. Are you stopping here long?”

“Only a few days. But you made me promise to look you up if ever I came to Salt Lake City, and here I am, you see. There isn’t very much time. Perhaps I can see you to-night——”

Billie and Nancy exchanged long, frightened glances. They were meddling in matters which did not concern them, and which Miss Campbell had forbidden them to touch.

“Do come to-night My room is No. 400, on the fourth floor.”

“I’ll be there right away,” said Billie, and she hung up the receiver. “Nancy, you’ll have to go to bed, and turn out all the lights. I’m so frightened about what I’m doing. It’s wrong, I suppose, but I don’t want the others to know anything about it.” She took Daniel Moore’s note from her satchel and slipped it in the neck of her dress. “No. 400,” she repeated to herself, as she hurried from the room. “He’s certain to go up on the first elevator. Fortunately, we’re on the same floor.”

She fled down a corridor; turned a corner and hurried down another, almost running into Ebenezer Stone, Evelyn’s stern fiance. She heard footsteps behind her, but she did not pause.

“You’ve been saying good-night, Ebenezer?” said the voice of Mr. Stone.

“Yes, Cousin John; and, by the way, there’s a little matter I wanted to see you about——”

Billie heard no more. She had reached No. 400, and old John James would be detained a moment. As she tapped on the door, she drew the letter out of her dress. Instantly the door opened, and Evelyn, beautiful and pale, and very unhappy, stood before her.

“Take this quickly,” whispered Billie. “Hide it somewhere. It’s from Mr. Moore.”

“Danny!” exclaimed Evelyn, hiding the letter under the pillow.

“Yes.”

“But he’s married.”

“He’s not anything of the sort. I should think you’d feel ashamed to treat him so badly.”

Billie was standing with her back to the door, and suddenly Evelyn threw both arms around her neck and gave her a good squeeze.

“You were the girl at the inn,” she whispered. “And you bring me such wonderful news. I thought—they said—they showed me a clipping”—her voice changed—“think of not having seen you since Fontainebleau. You’re the dearest, sweetest——”

Instinctively Billie felt that the father was standing at the door.

“Good old friends?” she heard him say, in his deep, hollow voice.

“I’m sure his body must be full of black caverns,” she thought.

“Father, this is Miss——” There was just a perceptible pause, and Billie felt certain that Evelyn was searching vainly in her memory for her name. With great presence of mind, she interrupted her:

“Oh, your father and I have met,” she said. “We were introduced over the telephone. I was afraid you might think I was a boy when you heard my name was ‘Billie Campbell,’” she added, turning and facing that tower of strength and sternness. The young girl and the big man exchanged a long glance. They were not unlike David and Goliath on the field of battle, and in her heart Billie knew there was going to be a struggle.

“Show the young lady your things, Evie,” he said, with a certain complaisant pride in his tone. As if to say: “We will dazzle this young person with our magnificence.”

Evelyn wearily led the way into the next room, which was her bedroom, and evidently had no outlet except through her father’s room. Billie glanced at the filmy laces and beautiful frocks with lukewarm interest. She was never particularly interested in clothes.

“It’s a pity Nancy-Bell missed the opportunity,” she thought.

Mr. Stone was called into the next room to the telephone, and in the two minutes he was away, Evelyn whispered:

“Where is Danny?”

“In town. You’re not going to marry that——”

“I’m afraid I must.”

“Come with us in the motor to San Francisco.”

Billie hardly realized her own words.

“I can’t, I can’t,” whispered Evelyn, in an agonized tone of voice.

“I must be getting back now,” said Billie, when the telephone conversation was over. “The things are lovely, Evelyn. Perhaps we shall see you to-morrow. We are going sight-seeing all day, but we shall be here for meals. Good-night.”

The two girls kissed warmly.

Mr. Stone accompanied Billie around the corridor to her room.

“Good-night,” she said, and held out her hand.

He took it in his enormous hand, and, looking down at her with a quizzical expression, he said:

“You are a friend of Daniel Moore?”

Billie’s heart almost stopped beating, but she returned his look steadily.

“Yes,” she replied, quickly withdrawing her hand. Then she hurried in and locked the door behind her.