She led the way into the broad spacious hall of the hotel. But Daniel Moore had not been seen at the desk, nor was he in any of the parlors.
While they searched, Billie examined the hotel register. There on the same page with their own names were the three names—“John James Stone, Miss Stone, Ebenezer Stone.” Six lines above John James Stone, Daniel Moore had written his name in a fine, manly hand. Billie noted the number of Evelyn’s room, and then followed her friends up to bed.
“It’s too late for us to interfere, I am afraid,” said Miss Campbell sadly, as they stood in a silent little group in her room.
CHAPTER XVIII.—DAVID AND GOLIATH.
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?”