The Mormon studied her with dark, speculative eyes. “Hang her!” he rejoined in brutal harshness.
“O Mother of Saints!” she cried, and her hands went up.
“You're sorry for Mary, then?” asked Joe, bluntly.
“My heart is breaking for her.”
“Well, so's Shefford's,” said the Mormon, huskily. “And mine's kind of damn shaky.”
Ruth glided to Shefford with a woman's swift softness.
“You've been my good—my best friend. You were hers, too. Oh, I know! ... Can't you do something for her?”
“I hope to God I can,” replied Shefford.
Then the three stood looking from one to the other, in a strong and subtly realizing moment drawn together.
“Ruth,” whispered Joe, hoarsely, and then he glanced fearfully around, at the window and door, as if listeners were there. It was certain that his dark face had paled. He tried to whisper more, only to fail. Shefford divined the weight of Mormonism that burdened Joe Lake then. Joe was faithful to a love for Fay Larkin, noble in friendship to Shefford, desperate in a bitter strait with his own manliness, but the power of that creed by which he had been raised struck his lips mute. For to speak on meant to be false to that creed. Already in his heart he had decided, yet he could not voice the thing.