“We had better leave town to-morrow morning,” she said. “We can’t leave to-night. The Comet isn’t quite ready.”
“Leave town, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Campbell. “We have nothing on our consciences. We shall stay as long as we choose. This is a free country, and I am not in the least afraid of that dreadful Mormon. Let us go down to dinner and forget all about him.”
And down she went presently, sweeping into the dining room like a haughty little queen, the Motor Maids following behind her. Elinor held her head high. She was a princess and feared no man, neither Mormon nor Gentile. Mary walked innocently at her side. Her conscience was clear, and she was not afraid to look the whole world in the face. Then came the guilty ones, pale and silent. Oh, heavens! What it is to have a black secret on one’s soul. The food had no taste. The music clashed inharmoniously, and the murmur of the conversation of other diners grated on their nerves.
“Nancy, dear, you have no appetite,” Miss Campbell was saying, when a waiter approached bearing a long, official-looking envelope on a tray.
“Another communication from our poor friend, I suppose,” she observed, breaking the seal and drawing out the letter without noticing the inscription on the envelope which announced that it came straight from the Department of Police, Salt Lake City.
As Miss Campbell read the communication contained within this formidable cover, a deep scarlet flush spread over her face, which gradually faded into a deadly white pallor. She tried to speak, but her lips refused to frame the words.
The girls were very much frightened and several of the waiters drew near with evident curiosity. It was Elinor who had the presence of mind to say:
“Dear Miss Campbell, won’t you take my arm? I am quite through dinner.” And the two walked slowly from the room, taking the mysterious letter with them.
“We had better wait a moment,” whispered Billie to the other girls. “It would be less conspicuous than if we all rushed out at once. People are already looking at us.”
She tried to butter a piece of bread, but her hands trembled and she felt that the color had left her cheeks. Nancy was the picture of misery.