Hurry home, won't you?
With love, Your sister, MARY.
Sanderson finished reading the letter.

He meditated silently, turning it over and over in his hands.

The last letter was dated a month before.

Evidently Bransford had not hurried.
Sanderson searched all the other pockets, and discovered nothing of further interest.

Then he stood for a long time, looking down at the man's face, studying it, his own face expressing disapproval.
"Mebbe it's just as well that he didn't get to the Double A," he thought, noting the coarse, brutal features of the other.
"If a girl's got ideals it's sometimes a mighty good thing the real guy don't come along to disabuse them.