KISSES--A MAN REFUSES THEM There was a kerosene lamp in Sanderson's room, and when, after an hour of gloomy silence in the dark, he got up and lit the lamp, he felt decidedly better.

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.

For there were decorations here and there--a delicate piece of crochet work on a dresser; a sewing basket on a stand; a pincushion, a pair of shears; some gaily ornamented pictures on the walls, and--peering behind the dresser--he saw a pair of lady's riding-boots.
He strode to a closet door and threw it open, revealing, hanging innocently on their hooks, a miscellaneous array of skirts, blouses, and dresses.
Mary had surrendered her room to him.