Mary Bransford had it, of course. The other letters, he supposed, she
cared less for than the one written by her brother.
For the twentieth time since his arrival at the ranch, Sanderson had an
impulse to ride away and leave Mary Bransford to fight the thing out
herself. But, as before, he fought down the impulse.
This time--so imbued was he with determination to heap confusion upon
Alva Dale's head--he stood in the center of the room, grinning
saturninely, fully resolved that if it must be he would make a complete
confession to the girl and stay at the Double A to fight Dale no matter
what Mary thought of him.
He might have gone to Mary, to ask her what had become of the letter.
He could have invented some pretext. But he would not; he would not
have her think he had been examining her letters. One thing he could
do without confessing that he had been prying--and he did it.
At dinner he remarked casually to Mary:
"I reckon you don't think enough of my letters put them away as
keepsakes?"
"Sanderson's or Bransford's?" she returned, looking at him with a smile.
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