What I want to
know is how such a wrong may be righted, and what Peter Morrison
has to do with it."
Stepping from the back door, Marian followed the well-worn
pathway that led to the garage, looking right and left for Peter,
and she was wondering what she would say to him if she met him.
She was thinking that perhaps she had better return to San
Francisco and talk the matter over with Mr. Snow before she said
anything to anyone else; by this time she had reached the garage
and stood in its wide-open door. She looked in at the cot, left
just as someone had arisen from it, at the row of clothing
hanging on a rough wooden rack at the back, at the piled boxes,
at the big table, knocked together from rough lumber, in the
center, scattered and piled with books and magazines; and then
her eyes fixed intently on a packet lying on the table beside a
typewriter and a stack of paper and envelopes. She walked over
and picked up the packet. As she had known the instant she saw
them, they were her letters. She stood an instant holding them
in her hand, a dazed expression on her face. Mechanically she
reached out and laid her hands on the closed typewriter to steady
herself. Something about it appealed to her as familiar. She
looked at it closely, then she lifted the cover and examined the
machine. It was the same machine that had stood for years in
Doctor Strong's library, a machine upon which she had typed
business letters for her own father, and sometimes she had copied
lectures and book manuscript on it for Doctor Strong.
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