He was undressing, preparing to get into bed, when
he was assailed with a thought that brought the perspiration out on him
again.
This time it was a cold sweat, and it came with the realization that
discovery was again imminent, for if, as Mary had said, she had kept
Sanderson's letter to her father, there were in existence two
letters--his own and Will Bransford's--inevitably in different
handwriting, both of which he had claimed to have written.
Sanderson groaned. The more he lied the deeper he became entangled.
He pulled on his trousers, and stood shoeless, gazing desperately
around the room.
He simply must destroy that letter, or Mary, comparing it with the
letter her brother had written would discover the deception.
It was the first time in Sanderson's life that had ever attempted to
deceive anybody, and he was in the grip of a cringing dread.
For the first time since he occupied the room he inspected it, noting
its furnishings. His heart thumped wildly with hope while he looked.
It was a woman's room--Mary's, of course.
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