So they enter here, draw some money, and are kindly received by Mr. Bussey himself, their letters from the East bringing them favor in this Gentile banker's eyes, who has just made a large fortune by speculating in Emma stock. He shows them over the new banking-house he has just erected, and tells them he is going to open it with a grand ball, and hopes they will come to the same; remarking that Mrs. Bussey will call upon them and do all she can for their entertainment during their stay in this Western city.
Then they return to the Townsend House, but during all this drive, though Erma Travenion's eyes, which are quite far-sighted, have searched the passing crowd of speculators, Mormons and Western business men, seeking for one form and one face—her father's—she has not seen it. As the afternoon passes she becomes more impatient, and says, "I have lost a day in which his dear face might have been beside me."
Then an idea coming to her, she mutters: "Why did I not think of it before? I will go where I address my father's letters; there they will know where he is." And calling a hack, says to the driver, "The Deseret Co-operative Bank!"
Arriving there, shortly before the hour of closing, three o'clock, she hurriedly asks the paying-teller if he can tell her the address of Mr. Ralph Travenion.
To her astonishment, the man answers quite politely that he does not know the individual.
"Why, I have directed a hundred letters to him here," she says hurriedly, surprise in her voice, and a moment after asks: "Can I see the cashier or the president?"
"Certainly. The president is in."
In an inner office, she meets the head of the bank, and to her question as to whether he knows the address of Ralph Travenion, he hesitates a moment—then answers that they frequently have letters addressed to their care, though they do not always keep run of the parties who call for them.
"Very well," replies the young lady. "Would you be kind enough to give orders to this effect, that in case Mr. Travenion calls, or sends for his letters, that he is to be informed that Mr. Travenion's daughter is at present at the Townsend House waiting anxiously to see him?"
"Ah, you are Mr. Travenion's daughter," replies the official, as he shows her politely to the door and puts her in her carriage, a rather curious expression coming over his face as he gazes after the beautiful girl as she is driven away; for this bank is a Mormon one, and its president is well up in the Church of Zion, and knows a good deal of the counsels and doings of its leaders and nearly every one else in Salt Lake City.