“Dear Mr. Griffin:  Monsignore is coming to tea at four o’clock to-day. 
Won’t you come with him?  He likes you—­that I know—­and he always
looks lonesome when he comes alone, with only two women to talk to. 
  Sincerely,
    Ruth Atheson.”

That was all.  The letter went into Mark’s pocket as he saw Saunders looking over the top of his paper.

“Getting acquainted in Sihasset pretty quickly, eh?” ventured the detective.

“Yes,” replied Mark, “bad pays get acquainted fast.”  The reply was obviously inadequate, but Mark wanted the detective to know.  Saunders took the bait, hook and all.

“Sihasset’s getting up in the world,” he commented.  “Square, tinted envelopes for bills were just coming in at New York two weeks ago.”

Both gentlemen were evidently quite pleased with themselves.  Saunders took the cigar Mark offered, and they sat talking over first editions until ten.

“Going out?” Saunders asked, as Mark threw away his cigar and rose.  Something in his tone made Mark think he wanted him to go.  Why?

“Just for a little while.  Want to go?”

“No, I’m going to write letters.  I’ll go out later.”

Mark understood.  Saunders suspected him to be an accomplice of the woman and intended to search his room.  Mark thought quickly.  Immediate action was necessary; there were important papers in his room, and he didn’t care to have his identity known just now.  Then he smiled cheerfully, for his whole plan of action was suddenly clear.  Not only would he guard his papers, but he’d keep the detective guessing—­guessing hard.  He walked to the desk and addressed the clerk: 

“Has any of the town banks a safety deposit vault for the public?”

“Yes, sir.  The National has one and its terms are very reasonable.”

Mark went to his room, and carefully gathered every scrap of paper.  The useless went into the old stove which had stood all summer waiting the winter’s need; the others he carefully placed in his pocket.  Then he went out.  At the bank he rented a box and left the papers he didn’t want Saunders to see.  He felt satisfied that nothing Saunders found would relieve him of suspicion.  The burning of the papers would make the detective all the more certain that Mark ought to be watched.  That would help Miss Atheson by keeping the detective on the wrong scent.

At noon Mark went to his room to wash before lunch.  Saunders had not been very clever.  There was a tell-tale smudge on the stove—­a smudge made by a hand that had blackened itself by diving down into the ashes to search among the burned papers.  Mark knew that Saunders had lost no time in searching his room, and he was happy to be still under suspicion.