“First to the Temple; then to see Brigham Young’s houses, and then to the lake,” said Mary, studying the guide-book.
“And then back to the hotel for a good night’s rest on a perfectly delightful bed,” added Miss Campbell, who had enjoyed her night’s sleep exceedingly.
After breakfast, they inquired at the desk for a message from Daniel Moore, but he had left none and was not in his room.
As the five ladies left the hotel, half an hour later, a messenger boy passed them on the run.
“A rush message for Miss Helen Campbell,” he said breathlessly to the clerk.
“She’s gone out,” said the young man, looking up the number of her room and examining her letter box with official deliberation. “Her key’s on the hook.”
And at that moment, Miss Campbell, with a swish of her silk skirts and a flutter of blue chiffon veils, had turned the corner and was out of sight. If she had lingered three minutes longer over the breakfast table; or if the messenger boy had hurried his steps still more, or the clerk had watched more carefully the comings and goings of the guests of the hotel, the tide of this story would certainly have been changed.
As it happened, the Motor Maids and Miss Helen Campbell did not return to the hotel until late that evening, and all that time this important letter was waiting for them.
“On to the Temple!” cried Billie, engaging a little boy to guide them to that enormous structure.
“I don’t like it at all,” announced Nancy, as they approached the Mormon church. “It’s stern and hard and ugly, and I am sure that Mr. John James Stone is just a chip of granite out of one of the sides.”