When Forrest went through the French windows from his sleeping-porch,
he crossed, first, a comfortable dressing room, window-divaned, many-
lockered, with a generous fireplace, out of which opened a bathroom;
and, second, a long office room, wherein was all the paraphernalia of
business--desks, dictaphones, filing cabinets, book cases, magazine
files, and drawer-pigeonholes that tiered to the low, beamed ceiling.

Midway in the office room, he pressed a button and a series of book-
freightened shelves swung on a pivot, revealing a tiny spiral stairway
of steel, which he descended with care that his spurs might not catch,
the bookshelves swinging into place behind him.

At the foot of the stairway, a press on another button pivoted more
shelves of books and gave him entrance into a long low room shelved
with books from floor to ceiling. He went directly to a case, directly
to a shelf, and unerringly laid his hand on the book he sought. A
minute he ran the pages, found the passage he was after, nodded his
head to himself in vindication, and replaced the book.

A door gave way to a pergola of square concrete columns spanned with
redwood logs and interlaced with smaller trunks of redwood, all rough
and crinkled velvet with the ruddy purple of the bark.

It was evident, since he had to skirt several hundred feet of concrete
walls of wandering house, that he had not taken the short way out.
Under wide-spreading ancient oaks, where the long hitching-rails,
bark-chewed, and the hoof-beaten gravel showed the stamping place of
many horses, he found a pale-golden, almost tan-golden, sorrel mare.