"Is it right?"
"Yes--but----"
"Let me tell you," he interrupted. "It's queer, and still it's simple
enough. Two months ago I went into Toba Inlet to look at some timber
about five miles up the river from the mouth. When I got there I
decided to stay awhile. It was less lonesome there than in the racket
and hustle of a town where I knew no one and nobody wanted to know me.
I made a camp, and in looking over a stretch of timber on a slope that
runs south from the river I found a log cabin----"
"In a hollow full of big cedars back of the cliff along the south side
of the Big Bend?" the girl cut in eagerly. "A log house with two
rooms, where some shingle-bolts had been cut--with a bolt-chute
leading downhill?"
"The very same," Hollister continued. "I see you know the place. And
in this cabin there was a shelf with a row of books, and each one had
written on the flyleaf, 'Doris Cleveland--Her Book.'"
"My poor books," she murmured. "I thought the rats had torn them to
bits long ago."
"No. Except for a few nibbles at the binding.
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