Suddenly she sat up again, staring straight before her.
That letter,--the letter Art had taken to her father, the letter he had read and put in the pocket of his chaps! Was that what the man had been hunting for, those nights when he had come searching in that secret, stealthy way?
She did not remember ever having looked into the pocket of her father's chaps, though they had hung in her room all those three years since the tragedy.

Pockets in chaps were not, as a general thing, much used.

Men carried matches in them sometimes, or money.

The flap over her dad's chap-pocket was buttoned down, and the leather was stiff; perhaps the letter was there yet.
She got up and turned on the light, and looked at her watch.

She wanted to start then, that instant, for Los Angeles.