‘He destroyed the papers?’ ‘That’s right,’ Roding said, throwing her a glance of frowning surprise, as if he had not rated her intelligence so high. Michelle would arrive daily with a two to ten minute brief on her own dating status, her nightly dreams, grades, new family developments. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. She glanced at the soft-ticking clock with the exposed brass pendulum upon the white marble mantel, and made a rapid calculation.
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