“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.
“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?”