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.
"Both," he grinned.
"Well," she said, "I did keep both.

But, as I told you before, I had the Sanderson letter somewhere.