“If you're a spy it'll go hard with you—though I'm no Mormon,” he said, grimly.
Shefford lifted a shaking hand.
“I WAS a clergyman. Now I'm nothing—a wanderer—least of all a spy.”
Withers leaned closer to see into the other man's eyes; he looked long and then appeared satisfied.
“I've heard the name Fay Larkin,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that's all I'll say till you tell your story.”
. . . . . . . . . . .
Shefford stood with his back to the fire and he turned the palms of his hands to catch the warmth. He felt cold. Withers had affected him strangely. What was the meaning of the trader's somber gravity? Why was the very mention of Mormons attended by something austere and secret?
“My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four,” began Shefford. “My family—”
Here a knock on the door interrupted Shefford.
“Come in,” called Withers.