He looked at Dale with cold, unwavering eyes until the latter, sneering, turned and ordered his men to remove the rope from Nyland.  With his hands resting idly on his hips he watched Dale and the men ride away.  Then he shook hands mechanically with Nyland, permitted Peggy to kiss him—­which she did fervently, and led her brother away.  Then Sanderson turned, to see Mary smiling and blushing, not more than two or three feet distant.

He stood still, and she stepped slowly toward him, the blush on her face deepening.

“Oh,” she said as she came dose to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, “this seems positively brazen—­for you seem like a stranger to me.”

Then she deliberately took both his cheeks in her hands, stood on the tips of her toes and kissed him three or four times, squarely on the lips.

“Why, ma’am—­” began Sanderson.

“Mary!” she corrected, shaking him.

“Well, ma’am—­Mary, that is—­you see I ain’t just——­”

“You’re the dearest and best brother that ever lived,” she declared, placing a hand over his mouth, “even though you did stay away for so many years.  Not another word now!” she warned as she took him by an arm and led him toward the ranchhouse; “not a word about anything until you’ve eaten and rested.  Why, you look tired to death—­almost!”

Sanderson wanted to talk; he wanted to tell Mary Bransford that he was not her brother; that he had assumed the role merely for the purpose of defeating Dale’s aim.  His sole purpose had been to help Mary Bransford out of a difficult situation; he had acted on impulse—­an impulse resulting from the pleading look she had given him, together with the knowledge that she had wanted to save Nyland.

Now that the incident was closed, and Nyland saved, he wanted to make his confession, be forgiven, and received into Mary’s good graces.

He followed the girl into the house, but as he halted for an instant on the threshold, just before entering, he looked hack, to see the little, anemic man standing near the house, looking at him with an odd smile.  Sanderson flushed and made a grimace at the little man, whereat the latter’s smile grew broad and eloquent.

“What’s eatin’ him, I wonder?” was Sanderson’s mental comment.  “He looked mighty fussed up while Dale was doin’ the talkin’.  Likely he’s just tickled—­like the rest of them.”

Mary led Sanderson into the sitting-room to a big easy-chair, shoved him into it, and stood behind him, running her fingers through his hair.  Meanwhile she talked rapidly, telling him of the elder Bransford’s last moments, of incidents that had occurred during his absence from the ranch; of other incidents that had to do with her life at a school on the coast; of many things of which he was in complete ignorance.

Desperate over his inability to interrupt her flow of talk, conscious of the falseness of his position, squirming under her caresses, and cursing himself heartily for yielding to the absurd impulse that had placed him in so ridiculous a predicament, Sanderson opened his month a dozen times to make his confession, but each time closed it again, unsuccessful.