Feeling guilty again, and rather conscience-stricken, as though he were committing some sacrilegious action, he went to the dresser and began to search among the effects in the drawers.
They were filled with articles of wearing apparel, delicately fringed things that delight the feminine heart, and keepsakes of all descriptions.

Sanderson handled them carefully, but his search was not the less thorough on that account.
And at last, in one of the upper drawers of the dresser, he came upon a packet of letters.
Again his conscience pricked him, but the stern urge of necessity drove him on until he discovered an envelope addressed to the elder Bransford, in his own handwriting, and close to it a letter from Will Bransford to Mary Bransford.
Sanderson looked long at the Bransford letter, considering the situation.

He was tempted to destroy that, too, but he reflected, permitting a sentimental thought to deter him.
For Mary undoubtedly treasured that letter, and when the day came that he should tell her the truth, the letter would be the only link that would connect her with the memory of her brother.
Sanderson could not destroy it.

He had already offended Mary Bransford more than he had a right to, and to destroy her brother's letter would be positively heinous.
Besides, unknown to him, there might be more letters about with Will Bransford's signature on them, and it might be well to preserve this particular letter in case he should be called upon to forge Will Bransford's signature.
So he retied the letters in the packet and restored the packet to its place, retaining his own letter to Bransford.

Smiling grimly now, he again sought the chair near the window, lit a match, applied the blaze to the letter, and watched the paper burn until nothing remained of it but a crinkly ash.