Worse, were he now to inform her of what had happened in the desert,
she might not believe him; she might indeed--considering that he
already had dealt doubly with her--accuse him of being her brother's
murderer!
Again Sanderson groaned in spirit. To confess to her would be to
destroy her; to withhold the confession and to continue to impersonate
her brother was to act the role of a cad.
Sanderson hesitated between a choice of the two evils, and was lost.
For she gave him no time for serious and continued thought. Taking him
by an arm she led him into a room off the sitting-room, shoving him
through the door laughingly.
"That is to be your room," she said. "I fixed it up for you more than
a month ago. You go in there and get some sleep. Sleep until dusk.
By that time I'll have supper ready. And then, after supper, there are
so many things that I want to say to you. So get a good sleep!"
She closed the door and went out, and Sanderson sank into a chair.
Later, he locked the door, pulled the chair over near a window--from
which he got a good view of the frowning butte at the edge of the
level--and stared out, filled with a sensation of complete disgust.
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