“That can’t be,” she repeated.  “No man could deceive a woman like that!”

Sanderson groaned, mentally.  He couldn’t confess now and at the same time entertain any hope that she would forgive him.

Nor could he—­knowing what he knew now of Dale’s plans—­brutally tell her the truth and leave her to fight Dale single-handed,

And there was still another consideration to deter him from making a confession.  By impersonating her brother he had raised her hopes high.  How could he tell her that her brother had been killed, that he had buried him in a desolate section of a far-off desert after taking his papers and his money?

He felt, from her manner when he had tentatively asked her to consider the possibility of his not being her brother, that the truth would kill her, as she had said.

Worse, were he now to inform her of what had happened in the desert, she might not believe him; she might indeed—­considering that he already had dealt doubly with her—­accuse him of being her brother’s murderer!

Again Sanderson groaned in spirit.  To confess to her would be to destroy her; to withhold the confession and to continue to impersonate her brother was to act the role of a cad.

Sanderson hesitated between a choice of the two evils, and was lost.  For she gave him no time for serious and continued thought.  Taking him by an arm she led him into a room off the sitting-room, shoving him through the door laughingly.

“That is to be your room,” she said.  “I fixed it up for you more than a month ago.  You go in there and get some sleep.  Sleep until dusk.  By that time I’ll have supper ready.  And then, after supper, there are so many things that I want to say to you.  So get a good sleep!”

She closed the door and went out, and Sanderson sank into a chair.  Later, he locked the door, pulled the chair over near a window—­from which he got a good view of the frowning butte at the edge of the level—­and stared out, filled with a sensation of complete disgust.

“Hell,” he said, after a time, “I’m sure a triple-plated boxhead, an’ no mistake!”

CHAPTER VI

SANDERSON LIES

Sanderson did not sleep.  He sat at the window all afternoon, dismally trying to devise way of escape from the dilemma.  He did not succeed.  He had gone too far now to make a confession sound reasonably convincing; and he could not desert the girl to Dale.  That was not to be thought of.  And he was certain that if he admitted the deception, the girl would banish him as though he were a pestilence.

He was hopelessly entangled.  And yet, continuing to ponder the situation, he saw that he need not completely yield to pessimism.  For though circumstances—­and his own lack of foresight—­had placed him in a contemptible position—­he need not act the blackguard.  On the contrary, he could admirably assume the role of protector.