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looked, she would be fortunate to salvage their personal belongings, let alone reclaim the house on PikeStreet. And if Papa Robert’s laboratory was not safeguarded, there was no telling how much trouble the mint might cause her.
    Surely they wouldn’t expect her to be responsible, would they? The sheriff was the one who had moved in and posted guards. Therefore if there were any discrepancies, the explanation for those should lie at Scannell’s doorstep.
    Only that particular lawman’s reputation was built on graft, not honor, according to the talk she’d overheard at church and in her own parlor. His election had been questioned from the beginning, and ballot boxes with false bottoms had been written about in the evening Bulletin . Its publisher, Mr. James King, had been crusading against corruption in San Francisco for months and had even withstood threats on his life in order to continue to print the truth.
    “That’s what I’ll do,” Sara Beth murmured, elated by her idea. “As soon as I have a chance, I’ll pen a letter to the newspaper and ask for information about my parents’ murders.”
    Would Mr. King print such a thing? Oh, yes. He was an honorable gentleman who stood firm against the riffraff and evildoers who lurked among the good people of the city. He would gladly print her missive. And then perhaps she’d see her parents avenged.
    Thoughts of allies and admirable men brought Dr. Hayward to mind once again. Not only did he cut a fine figure, there had been benevolence and caring in his gaze. As soon as she was able, she planned to somehow repay his kindnesses. Until then, she would simply take each moment, each hour, each day, one at a time.
    To sensibly contemplate the future, when her heart was breaking and her mind awhirl, was more than difficult. It was impossible.
     
    The sun was rising and the city was coming to life as Taylor drove slowly down crowded Sacramento Street and past the What Cheer House. Hotels had proliferated in San Francisco until there were nearly sixty, although none quite as accommodating as the one R. B. Woodward ran, especially if a fellow wanted a warm, clean bath and a decent meal.
    Freight wagons and vendors made up the bulk of the traffic to and from the docks. This was not the best time of day to be trying to squeeze a flimsy doctor’s buggy through the main streets, wide though they were, so Taylor headed for the livery stable to leave his rig and complete his errands on foot.
    There were times, like now, when he almostwished he were back studying at Massachusetts General Hospital. He had been happiest while learning his trade, always eager to follow successful medical men on their rounds and observe the latest techniques. Everyone agreed that the best teaching hospitals were in Germany but given the state of his purse, such a trip was impossible. Someday, perhaps, he’d manage to travel overseas to study. In the meantime, his place was right here in San Francisco.
    “Helping Miss Reese,” he added with conviction. He had not been in time to save her parents, but he was going to assist her in every way possible. It was the least he could do.
    Leaving his horse and buggy, he made his way along the boarded walk to the Plaza on Portsmouth Square and passed the Hall of Records. As soon as he’d talked to Coleman he’d come back here and see if he could find out who owned the house in which Sara Beth and her family had lived. If, as the sheriff had claimed, it belonged to the government, then he didn’t see how she’d ever win it back.
    The thought of that sweet, innocent young woman having to take up permanent residence at the orphanage cut him to the quick. Yes, it was well-run. And, yes, it was useful as a temporary shelter. But that was where his approval ended. The placewas too cramped, too crowded, and that meant that chances of sickness rose appreciably, especially when summer miasma engulfed the city.
    He wasn’t sure he believed the experts who claimed