be thought of. And he was certain that if he admitted the deception,
the girl would banish him as though he were a pestilence.

He was hopelessly entangled. And yet, continuing to ponder the
situation, he saw that he need not completely yield to pessimism. For
though circumstances--and his own lack of foresight--had placed him in
a contemptible position--he need not act the blackguard. On the
contrary, he could admirably assume the rôle of protector.

The position would not be without its difficulties, and the deception
meant that he could never be to Mary Bransford what he wanted to be to
her; but he could at least save the Double A for her. That done, and
his confession made, he could go on his way, satisfied that he had at
least beaten Dale.

His decision made, Sanderson got up, opened the door a trifle, and
looked into the sitting-room. It was almost dusk, and, judging from
the sounds that reached his ears from the direction of the kitchen,
Mary intended to keep her promise regarding "supper."

Feeling guilty, though grimly determined to continue the deception to
the end--whatever the end might be--Sanderson stole through the
sitting-room, out through the door leading to the porch, and made his
way to a shed lean-to back of the kitchen.

There he found a tin washbasin, some water, and a towel, and for ten
minutes he worked with them. Then he discovered a comb, and a broken
bit of mirror fixed to the wall of the lean-to, before which he combed
his hair and studied his reflection. He noted the unusual flush on his
cheeks, but grinned brazenly into the glass.