piece of crochet work on a dresser; a sewing
basket on a stand; a pincushion, a pair of shears; some gaily
ornamented pictures on the walls, and--peering behind the dresser--he
saw a pair of lady's riding-boots.

He strode to a closet door and threw it open, revealing, hanging
innocently on their hooks, a miscellaneous array of skirts, blouses,
and dresses.

Mary had surrendered her room to him. Feeling guilty again, and rather
conscience-stricken, as though he were committing some sacrilegious
action, he went to the dresser and began to search among the effects in
the drawers.

They were filled with articles of wearing apparel, delicately fringed
things that delight the feminine heart, and keepsakes of all
descriptions. Sanderson handled them carefully, but his search was not
the less thorough on that account.

And at last, in one of the upper drawers of the dresser, he came upon a
packet of letters.

Again his conscience pricked him, but the stern urge of necessity drove
him on until he discovered an envelope addressed to the elder
Bransford, in his own handwriting, and close to it a letter from Will
Bransford to Mary Bransford.

Sanderson looked long at the Bransford letter, considering the
situation. He was tempted to destroy that, too, but he reflected,
permitting a sentimental thought to deter him.

For Mary undoubtedly treasured that letter, and when the day came that
he should tell her the truth, the letter would be the only link that
would connect her with the memory of her brother.

Sanderson could not destroy it. He had already offended Mary Bransford
more than he had a right to, and to destroy her brother's letter would
be positively heinous.

Besides, unknown to him, there might be more letters about with Will
Bransford's signature on them, and it might be well to preserve this
particular letter in case he should be called upon to forge Will
Bransford's signature.

So he retied the letters in the packet and restored the packet to its
place, retaining his own letter to Bransford. Smiling grimly now, he
again sought the chair near the window, lit a match, applied the blaze
to the letter, and watched the paper burn until nothing remained of it
but a crinkly ash. Then he smoked a cigarette and got into bed,
feeling more secure.

Determined not to submit to any more of Mary's caresses, and feeling
infinitely small and mean over the realization that he had already
permitted her to carry her