She kept thinking of the letter, and trying to imagine what clue it could possibly give if she found it still in the pocket.

Carl had sent it, Art said.

A thought came to Jean which she tried to ignore; and because she tried to ignore it, it returned with a dogged insistence, and took clearer shape in her mind, and formed itself into questions which she was compelled at last to face and try to answer.
Was it her Uncle Carl who had come and searched the house at night, trying to find that letter?
If it were her uncle, why was he so anxious to find it, after three years had passed?
What was in the letter?
If it had any bearing whatever upon the death of Johnny Croft, why hadn't her dad mentioned it?
Why hadn't her Uncle Carl said something about it?
Was the letter just a note about some ranch business?
Then why else should any one come at night and prowl all through the house, and never take anything?
Why had he come that first night?
Jean drew in her breath sharply.

All at once, like a flashlight turned upon a dark corner of her mind, she remembered something about that night.

She remembered how she had told her Uncle Carl that she meant to prove that her dad was innocent; that she meant to investigate the devious process by which the Lazy A ranch and all the stock had ceased to belong to her or her father; that she meant to adopt sly, sleuth-like methods; she remembered the very words which she had used.
She remembered how bitter her uncle had become.