An American tragedy, v. 2

By Theodore Dreiser

The Project Gutenberg eBook of An American tragedy, v. 2
    
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: An American tragedy, v. 2

Author: Theodore Dreiser

Release date: January 23, 2025 [eBook #75182]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: Boni and Liverlight, 1925

Credits: Emmanuel Ackerman, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY, V. 2 ***





                          AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY

                          By THEODORE DREISER

                              VOLUME TWO

                               NEW YORK
                          BONI AND LIVERIGHT
                                MCMXXV

                           COPYRIGHT 1925 BY
                        BONI & LIVERIGHT, INC.

               _Printed in the United States of America_

                              VOLUME TWO

                               BOOK TWO




                               CONTENTS

                               VOLUME II

                          BOOK II (Continued)

                               BOOK III




                              VOLUME TWO

                         BOOK TWO (Continued)




                             CHAPTER XXXIX


Opposing views such as these, especially where no real skill to meet
such a situation existed, could only spell greater difficulty and even
eventual disaster unless chance in some form should aid. And chance
did not aid. And the presence of Roberta in the factory was something
that would not permit him to dismiss it from his mind. If only he
could persuade her to leave and go somewhere else to live and work so
that he should not always see her, he might then think more calmly.
For with her asking continuously, by her presence if no more, what
he intended to do, it was impossible for him to think. And the fact
that he no longer cared for her as he had, tended to reduce his normal
consideration of what was her due. He was too infatuated with, and
hence disarranged by his thoughts of Sondra.

For in the very teeth of this grave dilemma he continued to pursue
the enticing dream in connection with Sondra--the dark situation in
connection with Roberta seeming no more at moments than a dark cloud
which shadowed this other. And hence nightly, or as often as the
exigencies of his still unbroken connection with Roberta would permit,
he was availing himself of such opportunities as his flourishing
connections now afforded. Now, and to his great pride and satisfaction,
it was a dinner at the Harriets' or Taylors' to which he was invited;
or a party at the Finchleys' or the Cranstons', to which he would
either escort Sondra or be animated by the hope of encountering
her. And now, also without so many of the former phases or attempts
at subterfuge, which had previously characterized her curiosity in
regard to him, she was at times openly seeking him out and making
opportunities for social contact. And, of course, these contacts being
identical with this typical kind of group gathering, they seemed to
have no special significance with the more conservative elders.

For although Mrs. Finchley, who was of an especially shrewd and
discerning turn socially, had at first been dubious over the attentions
being showered upon Clyde by her daughter and others, still observing
that Clyde was more and more being entertained, not only in her own
home by the group of which her daughter was a part, but elsewhere,
everywhere, was at last inclined to imagine that he must be more
solidly placed in this world than she had heard, and later to ask
her son and even Sondra concerning him. But receiving from Sondra
only the equivocal information that, since he was Gil and Bella
Griffiths' cousin, and was being taken up by everybody because he
was so charming--even if he didn't have any money--she couldn't see
why she and Stuart should not be allowed to entertain him also, her
mother rested on that for the time being--only cautioning her daughter
under no circumstances to become too friendly. And Sondra, realizing
that in part her mother was right, yet being so drawn to Clyde was
now determined to deceive her, at least to the extent of being as
clandestinely free with Clyde as she could contrive. And was, so much
so that every one who was privy to the intimate contacts between Clyde
and Sondra might have reported that the actual understanding between
them was assuming an intensity which most certainly would have shocked
the elder Finchleys, could they have known. For apart from what Clyde
had been, and still was dreaming in regard to her, Sondra was truly
being taken with thoughts and moods in regard to him which were fast
verging upon the most destroying aspects of the very profound chemistry
of love. Indeed, in addition to handclasps, kisses and looks of intense
admiration always bestowed when presumably no one was looking, there
were those nebulous and yet strengthening and lengthening fantasies
concerning a future which in some way or other, not clear to either as
yet, was still always to include each other.

Summer days perhaps, and that soon, in which he and she would be in
a canoe at Twelfth Lake, the long shadows of the trees on the bank
lengthening over the silvery water, the wind rippling the surface while
he paddled and she idled and tortured him with hints of the future;
a certain forest path, grass-sodden and sun-mottled to the south and
west of the Cranston and Phant estates, near theirs, through which they
might canter in June and July to a wonderful view known as Inspiration
Point some seven miles west; the country fair at Sharon, at which, in
a gypsy costume, the essence of romance itself, she would superintend
a booth, or, in her smartest riding habit, give an exhibition of her
horsemanship--teas, dances in the afternoon and in the moonlight at
which, languishing in his arms, their eyes would speak.

None of the compulsion of the practical. None of the inhibitions which
the dominance and possible future opposition of her parents might
imply. Just love and summer, and idyllic and happy progress toward
an eventual secure and unopposed union which should give him to her
forever.

And in the meantime, in so far as Roberta was concerned, two more long,
dreary, terrifying months going by without that meditated action on
her part which must result once it was taken in Clyde's undoing. For,
as convinced as she was that apart from meditating and thinking of
some way to escape his responsibility, Clyde had no real intention of
marrying her, still, like Clyde, she drifted, fearing to act really.
For in several conferences following that in which she had indicated
that she expected him to marry her, he had reiterated, if vaguely, a
veiled threat that in case she appealed to his uncle he would not be
compelled to marry her, after all, for he could go elsewhere.

The way he put it was that unless left undisturbed in his present
situation he would be in no position to marry her and furthermore could
not possibly do anything to aid her at the coming time when most of all
she would stand in need of aid--a hint which caused Roberta to reflect
on a hitherto not fully developed vein of hardness in Clyde, although
had she but sufficiently reflected, it had shown itself at the time
that he compelled her to admit him to her room.

In addition and because she was doing nothing and yet he feared that at
any moment she might, he shifted in part at least from the attitude of
complete indifference, which had availed him up to the time that she
had threatened him, to one of at least simulated interest and good-will
and friendship. For the very precarious condition in which he found
himself was sufficiently terrifying to evoke more diplomacy than ever
before had characterized him. Besides he was foolish enough to hope,
if not exactly believe, that by once more conducting himself as though
he still entertained a lively sense of the problem that afflicted her
and that he was willing, in case no other way was found, to eventually
marry her (though he could never definitely be persuaded to commit
himself as to this), he could reduce her determination to compel him to
act soon at least to a minimum, and so leave him more time in which to
exhaust every possibility of escape without marriage, and without being
compelled to run away.

And although Roberta sensed the basis of this sudden shift, still she
was so utterly alone and distrait that she was willing to give ear
to Clyde's mock genial, if not exactly affectionate observations and
suggestions. It caused her, at his behest, to wait a while longer, the
while, as he now explained, he would not only have saved up some money,
but devised some plan in connection with his work which would permit
him to leave for a time anyhow, marry her somewhere and then establish
her and the baby as a lawful married woman somewhere else, while,
although he did not explain this just now, he returned to Lycurgus and
sent her such aid as he could. But on condition, of course, that never
anywhere, unless he gave her permission, must she assert that he had
married her, or point to him in any way as the father of her child.
Also it was understood that she, as she herself had asserted over and
over that she would, if only he would do this--marry her--take steps to
free herself on the ground of desertion, or something, in some place
sufficiently removed from Lycurgus for no one to hear. And that within
a reasonable time after her marriage to him, although he was not at all
satisfied, that, assuming that he did marry her, she would.

But Clyde, of course, was insincere in regard to all his overtures at
this time, and really not concerned as to her sincerity or insincerity.
Nor did he have any intention of leaving Lycurgus even for the moderate
length of time that her present extrication would require unless he had
to. For that meant that he would be separated from Sondra, and such
absence, for whatever period, would most definitely interfere with his
plans. And so, on the contrary, he drifted--thinking most idly at times
of some possible fake or mock marriage such as he had seen in some
melodramatic movie--a fake minister and witnesses combining to deceive
some simple country girl such as Roberta was not, but at such expense
of time, resources, courage and subtlety as Clyde himself, after a
little reflection, was wise enough to see was beyond him.

Again, knowing that, unless some hitherto unforseen aid should
eventuate, he was heading straight toward a disaster which could not
much longer be obviated, he even allowed himself to dream that, once
the fatal hour was at hand and Roberta, no longer to be put off by any
form of subterfuge, was about to expose him, he might even flatly deny
that he had ever held any such relationship with her as then she would
be charging--rather that at all times his relationship with her had
been that of a department manager to employee--no more. Terror--no less!

But at the same time, early in May, when Roberta, because of various
gestative signs and ailments, was beginning to explain, as well as
insist, to Clyde that by no stretch of the imagination or courage
could she be expected to retain her position at the factory or work
later than June first, because by then the likelihood of the girls
there beginning to notice something, would be too great for her to
endure, Sondra was beginning to explain that not so much later than
the fourth or fifth of June she and her mother and Stuart, together
with some servants, would be going to their new lodge at Twelfth Lake
in order to supervise certain installations then being made before
the regular season should begin. And after that, not later than the
eighteenth, at which time the Cranstons, Harriets, and some others
would have arrived, including very likely visits from Bella and Myra,
he might expect a week-end invitation from the Cranstons, with whom,
through Bertine, she would arrange as to this. And after that, the
general circumstances proving fairly propitious, there would be, of
course, other week-end invitations to the Harriets', Phants' and some
others who dwelt there, as well as to the Griffiths' at Greenwood, to
which place, on account of Bella, he could easily come. And during
his two weeks' vacation in July, he could either stop at the Casino,
which was at Pine Point, or perhaps the Cranstons or Harriets, at
her suggestion, might choose to invite him. At any rate, as Clyde
could see, and with no more than such expenditures as, with a little
scrimping during his ordinary working days here, he could provide for,
he might see not a little of that lake life of which he had read so
much in the local papers, to say nothing of Sondra at one and another
of the lodges, the masters of which were not so inimical to his
presence and overtures as were Sondra's parents.

For now it was, and for the first time, as she proceeded to explain
to him that her mother and father, because of his continued and
reported attentions to her, were already beginning to talk of an
extended European tour which might keep her and Stuart and her mother
abroad for at least the next two years. But since, at news of this,
Clyde's face as well as his spirits darkened, and she herself was
sufficiently enmeshed to suffer because of this, she at once added
that he must not feel so bad--he must not; things would work out well
enough, she knew. For at the proper time, and unless between then and
now, something--her own subtle attack if not her at present feverish
interest in Clyde--should have worked to alter her mother's viewpoint
in regard to him--she might be compelled to take some steps of her own
in order to frustrate her mother. Just what, she was not willing to say
at this time, although to Clyde's overheated imagination it took the
form of an elopement and marriage, which could not then be gainsaid by
her parents whatever they might think. And it was true that in a vague
and as yet repressed way some such thought was beginning to form in
Sondra's mind. For, as she now proceeded to explain to Clyde, it was
so plain that her mother was attempting to steer her in the direction
of a purely social match--the one with the youth who had been paying
her such marked attention the year before. But because of her present
passion for Clyde, as she now gayly declared, it was not easy to see
how she was to be made to comply. "The only trouble with me is that I'm
not of age yet," she here added briskly and slangily. "They've got me
there, of course. But I will be by next October and they can't do very
much with me after that, I want to let you know. I can marry the person
I want, I guess. And if I can't do it here, well, there are more ways
than one to kill a cat."

The thought was like some sweet, disarranging poison to Clyde. It
fevered and all but betrayed him mentally. If only--if only--it were
not for Roberta now. That terrifying and all but insoluble problem. But
for that, and the opposition of Sondra's parents which she was thinking
she would be able to overcome, did not heaven itself await him? Sondra,
Twelfth Lake, society, wealth, her love and beauty. He grew not a
little wild in thinking of it all. Once he and she were married, what
could Sondra's relatives do? What, but acquiesce and take them into the
glorious bosom of their resplendent home at Lycurgus or provide for
them in some other way--he to no doubt eventually take some place in
connection with the Finchley Electric Sweeper Company. And then would
he not be the equal, if not the superior, of Gilbert Griffiths himself
and all those others who originally had ignored him here--joint heir
with Stuart to all the Finchley means. And with Sondra as the central
or crowning jewel to so much sudden and such Aladdin-like splendor.

No thought as to how he was to overcome the time between now and
October. No serious consideration of the fact that Roberta then and
there was demanding that he marry her. He could put her off, he
thought. And yet, at the same time, he was painfully and nervously
conscious of the fact that at no period in his life before had he been
so treacherously poised at the very brink of disaster. It might be his
duty as the world would see it--his mother would say so--to at least
extricate Roberta. But in the case of Esta, who had come to her rescue?
Her lover? He had walked off from her without a qualm and she had
not died. And why, when Roberta was no worse off than his sister had
been, why should she seek to destroy him in this way? Force him to do
something which would be little less than social, artistic, passional
or emotional assassination? And when later, if she would but spare him
for this, he could do so much more for her--with Sondra's money of
course. He could not and would not let her do this to him. His life
would be ruined!




                              CHAPTER XL


Two incidents which occurred at this time tended still more to sharpen
the contrary points of view holding between Clyde and Roberta. One of
these was no more than a glimpse which Roberta had one evening of Clyde
pausing at the Central Avenue curb in front of the post-office to say
a few words to Arabella Stark, who in a large and impressive-looking
car, was waiting for her father who was still in the Stark Building
opposite. And Miss Stark, fashionably outfitted according to the
season, her world and her own pretentious taste, was affectedly
posed at the wheel, not only for the benefit of Clyde but the public
in general. And to Roberta, who by now was reduced to the verge of
distraction between Clyde's delay and her determination to compel him
to act in her behalf, she appeared to be little less than an epitome
of all the security, luxury and freedom from responsibility which
so enticed and hence caused Clyde to delay and be as indifferent as
possible to the dire state which confronted her. For, alas, apart from
this claim of her condition, what had she to offer him comparable to
all he would be giving up in case he acceded to her request? Nothing--a
thought which was far from encouraging.

Yet, at this moment contrasting her own wretched and neglected state
with that of this Miss Stark, for example, she found herself a prey
to an even more complaining and antagonistic mood than had hitherto
characterized her. It was not right. It was not fair. For during the
several weeks that had passed since last they had discussed this
matter, Clyde had scarcely said a word to her at the factory or
elsewhere, let alone called upon her at her room, fearing as he did the
customary inquiry which he could not satisfy. And this caused her to
feel that not only was he neglecting but resenting her most sharply.

And yet as she walked home from this trivial and fairly representative
scene, her heart was not nearly so angry as it was sad and sore because
of the love and comfort that had vanished and was not likely ever
to come again ... ever ... ever ... ever. Oh, how terrible, ... how
terrible!

On the other hand, Clyde, and at approximately this same time, was
called upon to witness a scene identified with Roberta, which, as some
might think, only an ironic and even malicious fate could have intended
or permitted to come to pass. For motoring north the following Sunday
to Arrow Lake to the lodge of the Trumbulls' to take advantage of an
early spring week-end planned by Sondra, the party on nearing Biltz,
which was in the direct line of the trip, was compelled to detour east
in the direction of Roberta's home. And coming finally to a north and
south road which ran directly from Trippettsville past the Alden farm,
they turned north into that. And a few minutes later, came directly to
the corner adjoining the Alden farm, where an east and west road led to
Biltz. Here Tracy Trumbull, driving at the time, requested that some
one should get out and inquire at the adjacent farm-house as to whether
this road did lead to Biltz. And Clyde, being nearest to one door,
jumped out. And then, glancing at the name on the mail-box which stood
at the junction and evidently belonged to the extremely dilapidated old
farm-house on the rise above, he was not a little astonished to note
that the name was that of Titus Alden--Roberta's father. Also, as it
instantly came to him, since she had described her parents as being
near Biltz, this must be her home. It gave him pause, caused him for
the moment to hesitate as to whether to go on or not, for once he had
given Roberta a small picture of himself, and she might have shown it
up here. Again the mere identification of this lorn, dilapidated realm
with Roberta and hence himself, was sufficient to cause him to wish to
turn and run.

But Sondra, who was sitting next him in the car and now noting his
hesitation, called: "What's the matter, Clyde? Afraid of the bow-wow?"
And he, realizing instantly that they would comment further on his
actions if he did not proceed at once, started up the path. But
the effect of this house, once he contemplated it thoroughly, was
sufficient to arouse in his brain the most troubled and miserable of
thoughts. For what a house, to be sure! So lonely and bare, even in
this bright, spring weather! The decayed and sagging roof. The broken
chimney to the north--rough lumps of cemented field stones lying at its
base; the sagging and semi-toppling chimney to the south, sustained
in place by a log chain. The unkempt path from the road below, which
slowly he ascended! He was not a little dejected by the broken and
displaced stones which served as steps before the front door. And the
unpainted dilapidated out-buildings, all the more dreary because of
these others.

"Gee!" To think that this was Roberta's home. And to think, in the face
of all that he now aspired to in connection with Sondra and this social
group at Lycurgus, she should be demanding that he marry her! And
Sondra in the car with him here to see--if not know. The poverty! The
reduced grimness of it all. How far he had traveled away from just such
a beginning as this!

With a weakening and sickening sensation at the pit of his stomach, as
of some blow administered there, he now approached the door. And then,
as if to further distress him, if that were possible, the door was
opened by Titus Alden, who, in an old, thread-bare and out-at-elbows
coat, as well as baggy, worn, jean trousers and rough, shineless,
ill-fitting country shoes, desired by his look to know what he wanted.
And Clyde, being taken aback by the clothes, as well as a marked
resemblance to Roberta about the eyes and mouth, now as swiftly as
possible asked if the east and west road below ran through Biltz and
joined the main highway north. And although he would have preferred a
quick "yes" so that he might have turned and gone, Titus preferred to
step down into the yard and then, with a gesture of the arm, indicate
that if they wanted to strike a really good part of the road, they had
better follow this Trippettsville north and south road for at least two
more miles, and then turn west. Clyde thanked him briefly and turned
almost before he had finished and hurried away.

For, as he now recalled, and with an enormous sense of depression,
Roberta was thinking and at this very time, that soon now, and in the
face of all Lycurgus had to offer him--Sondra--the coming spring and
summer--the love and romance, gayety, position, power--he was going to
give all that up and go away with and marry her. Sneak away to some
out-of-the-way place! Oh, how horrible! And with a child at his age!
Oh, why had he ever been so foolish and weak as to identify himself
with her in this intimate way? Just because of a few lonely evenings!
Oh, why, why couldn't he have waited and then this other world would
have opened up to him just the same? If only he could have waited!

And now unquestionably, unless he could speedily and easily disengage
himself from her, all this other splendid recognition would be destined
to be withdrawn from him, and this other world from which he sprang
might extend its gloomy, poverty-stricken arms to him and envelop him
once more, just as the poverty of his family had enveloped and almost
strangled him from the first. And it even occurred to him, in a vague
way for the first time, how strange it was that this girl and he, whose
origin had been strikingly similar, should have been so drawn to each
other in the beginning. Why should it have been? How strange life was,
anyway? But even more harrowing than this, was the problem of a way out
that was before him. And his mind from now on, on this trip, was once
more searching for some solution. A word of complaint from Roberta or
her parents to his uncle or Gilbert, and assuredly he would be done for.

The thought so troubled him that once in the car, and although
previously he had been chattering along with the others about what
might be in store ahead in the way of divertissement, he now sat
silent. And Sondra, who sat next to him and who previously had been
whispering at intervals of her plans for the summer, now, instead of
resuming the patter, whispered: "What come over de sweet phing?" (When
Clyde appeared to be the least reduced in mind she most affected this
patter with him, since it had an almost electric, if sweetly tormenting
effect on him. "His baby-talking girl," he sometimes called her.)
"Facey all dark now. Little while ago facey all smiles. Come make facey
all nice again. Smile at Sondra. Squeeze Sondra's arm like good boy,
Clyde."

She turned and looked up into his eyes to see what if any effect this
baby-worded cajolery was having, and Clyde did his best to brighten, of
course. But even so, and in the face of all this amazingly wonderful
love on her part for him, the specter of Roberta and all that she
represented now in connection with all this, was ever before him--her
state, her very recent edict in regard to it, the obvious impossibility
of doing anything now but go away with her.

Why--rather than let himself in for a thing like that--would it not be
better, and even though he lost Sondra once and for all, for him to
decamp as in the instance of the slain child in Kansas City--and be
heard of nevermore here. But then he would lose Sondra, his connections
here, and his uncle--this world! The loss! The loss! The misery of
once more drifting about here and there; of being compelled to write
his mother once more concerning certain things about his flight, which
some one writing from here might explain to her afterwards--and so much
more damagingly. And the thoughts concerning him on the part of his
relatives! And of late he had been writing his mother that he was doing
so well. What was it about his life that made things like this happen
to him? Was this what his life was to be like? Running away from one
situation and another just to start all over somewhere else--perhaps
only to be compelled to flee from something worse. No, he could not run
away again. He must face it and solve it in some way. He must!

God!




                              CHAPTER XLI


The fifth of June arriving, the Finchleys departed as Sondra had
indicated, but not without a most urgent request from her that he be
prepared to come to the Cranstons' either the second or third week-end
following--she to advise him definitely later--a departure which so
affected Clyde that he could scarcely think what to do with himself
in her absence, depressed as he was by the tangle which Roberta's
condition presented. And exactly at this time also, Roberta's fears and
demands had become so urgent that it was really no longer possible for
him to assure her that if she would but wait a little while longer, he
would be prepared to act in her behalf. Plead as he might, her case,
as she saw it, was at last critical and no longer to be trifled with
in any way. Her figure, as she insisted (although this was largely
imaginative on her part), had altered to such an extent that it would
not be possible for her longer to conceal it, and all those who worked
with her at the factory were soon bound to know. She could no longer
work or sleep with any comfort--she must not stay here any more. She
was having preliminary pains--purely imaginary ones in her case. He
must marry her now, as he had indicated he would, and leave with her
at once--for some place--any place, really--near or far--so long as
she was extricated from this present terrible danger. And she would
agree, as she now all but pleaded, to let him go his way again as
soon as their child was born--truly--and would not ask any more of
him ever--ever. But now, this very week--not later than the fifteenth
at the latest--he must arrange to see her through with this as he had
promised.

But this meant that he would be leaving with her before ever he should
have visited Sondra at Twelfth Lake at all, and without ever seeing her
any more really. And, besides, as he so well knew, he had not saved
the sum necessary to make possible the new venture on which she was
insisting. In vain it was that Roberta now explained that she had saved
over a hundred, and they could make use of that once they were married
or to help in connection with whatever expenses might be incurred in
getting to wherever he should decide they were going. All that he
would see or feel was that this meant the loss of everything to him,
and that he would have to go away with her to some relatively near-by
place and get work at anything he could, in order to support her as
best he might. But the misery of such a change! The loss of all his
splendid dreams. And yet, racking his brains, he could think of nothing
better than that she should quit and go home for the time being, since
as he now argued, and most shrewdly, as he thought, he needed a few
more weeks to prepare for the change which was upon them both. For, in
spite of all his efforts, as he now falsely asserted, he had not been
able to save as much as he had hoped. He needed at least three or four
more weeks in which to complete the sum, which he had been looking upon
as advisable in the face of this meditated change. Was not she herself
guessing, as he knew, that it could not be less than a hundred and
fifty or two hundred dollars--quite large sums in her eyes--whereas,
above his current salary, Clyde had no more than forty dollars and was
dreaming of using that and whatever else he might secure in the interim
to meet such expenses as might be incurred in the anticipated visit to
Twelfth Lake.

But to further support his evasive suggestion that she now return
to her home for a short period, he added that she would want to fix
herself up a little, wouldn't she? She couldn't go away on a trip
like this, which involved marriage and a change of social contacts in
every way, without some improvements in her wardrobe. Why not take
her hundred dollars or a part of it anyhow and use it for that? So
desperate was his state that he even suggested that. And Roberta, who,
in the face of her own uncertainty up to this time as to what was to
become of her had not ventured to prepare or purchase anything relating
either to a trousseau or layette, now began to think that whatever
the ulterior purpose of his suggestion, which like all the others was
connected with delay, it might not be unwise even now if she did take
a fortnight or three weeks, and with the assistance of an inexpensive
and yet tolerable dressmaker, who had aided her sister at times, make
at least one or two suitable dresses--a flowered gray taffeta afternoon
dress, such as she had once seen in a movie, in which, should Clyde
keep his word, she could be married. To match this pleasing little
costume, she planned to add a chic little gray silk hat--poke-shaped,
with pink or scarlet cherries nestled up under the rim, together with
a neat little blue serge traveling suit, which, with brown shoes and
a brown hat, would make her as smart as any bride. The fact that such
preparations as these meant additional delay and expense, or that
Clyde might not marry her after all, or that this proposed marriage
from the point of view of both was the tarnished and discolored thing
that it was, was still not sufficient to take from the thought of
marriage as an event, or sacrament even, that proper color and romance
with which it was invested in her eyes and from which, even under
such an unsatisfactory set of circumstances as these, it could not
be divorced. And, strangely enough, in spite of all the troubled and
strained relations that had developed between them, she still saw Clyde
in much the same light in which she had seen him at first. He was a
Griffiths, a youth of genuine social, if not financial distinction,
one whom all the girls in her position, as well as many of those far
above her, would be delighted to be connected with in this way--that
is, via marriage. He might be objecting to marrying her, but he was a
person of consequence, just the same. And one with whom, if he would
but trouble to care for her a little, she could be perfectly happy. And
at any rate, once he had loved her. And it was said of men--some men,
anyway (so she had heard her mother and others say) that once a child
was presented to them, it made a great difference in their attitude
toward the mother, sometimes. They came to like the mother, too. Anyhow
for a little while--a very little while--if what she had agreed to were
strictly observed, she would have him with her to assist her through
this great crisis--to give his name to her child--to aid her until she
could once more establish herself in some way.

For the time being, therefore, and with no more plan than this,
although with great misgivings and nervous qualms, since, as she could
see, Clyde was decidedly indifferent, she rested on this. And it was in
this mood that five days later, and after Roberta had written to her
parents that she was coming home for two weeks at least, to get a dress
or two made and to rest a little, because she was not feeling very
well, that Clyde saw her off for her home in Biltz, riding with her
as far as Fonda. But in so far as he was concerned, and since he had
really no definite or workable idea, it seemed important to him that
only silence, _silence_ was the great and all essential thing now, so
that, even under the impending edge of the knife of disaster, he might
be able to think more, and more, and more, without being compelled to
do anything, and without momentarily being tortured by the thought that
Roberta, in some nervous or moody or frantic state, would say or do
something which, assuming that he should hit upon some helpful thought
or plan in connection with Sondra, would prevent him from executing it.

And about the same time, Sondra was writing him gay notes from Twelfth
Lake as to what he might expect upon his arrival a little later. Blue
water--white sails--tennis--golf--horseback riding--driving. She had it
all arranged with Bertine, as she said. And kisses--kisses--kisses!




                             CHAPTER XLII


Two letters, which arrived at this time and simultaneously, but
accentuated the difficulty of all this.

    Pine Point Landing, June 10th.

    CLYDE MYDIE:

    How is my pheet phing? All wytie? It's just glorious up here. Lots
    of people already here and more coming every day. The Casino and
    golf course over at Pine Point are open and lots of people about.
    I can hear Stuart and Grant with their launches going up toward
    Gray's Inlet now. You must hurry and come up, dear. It's too nice
    for words. Green roads to gallop through, and swimming and dancing
    at the Casino every afternoon at four. Just back from a wonderful
    gallop on Dickey and going again after luncheon to mail these
    letters. Bertine says she'll write you a letter to-day or to-morrow
    good for any week-end or any old time, so when Sonda says come, you
    come, you hear, else Sonda whip hard. You baddie, good boy.

    Is he working hard in the baddie old factory? Sonda wisses he was
    here wiss her instead. We'd ride and drive and swim and dance.
    Don't forget your tennis racquet and golf clubs. There's a dandy
    course on the Casino grounds.

    This morning when I was riding a bird flew right up under Dickey's
    heels. It scared him so that he bolted and Sonda got all switched
    and scwatched. Isn't Clydie sorry for his Sonda?

    She is writing lots of notes to-day. After lunch and the ride
    to catch the down mail, Sonda and Bertine and Nina going to the
    Casino. Don't you wish you were going to be there? We could dance
    to "Taudy." Sonda just loves that song. But she has to dress now.
    More to-morrow, baddie boy. And when Bertine writes, answer right
    away. See all 'ose dots? Kisses. Big and little ones. All for
    baddie boy. And wite Sonda every day and she'll write 'oo.

    More kisses.

To which Clyde responded eagerly and in kind in the same hour. But
almost the same mail, at least the same day, brought the following
letter from Roberta.

    Biltz, June 10th.

    DEAR CLYDE:

    I am nearly ready for bed, but I will write you a few lines. I had
    such a tiresome journey coming up that I was nearly sick. In the
    first place I didn't want to come much (alone) as you know. I feel
    too upset and uncertain about everything, although I try not to
    feel so now that we have our plan and you are going to come for me
    as you said.

(At this point, while nearly sickened by the thought of the wretched
country world in which she lived, still, because of Roberta's
unfortunate and unavoidable relation to it, he now experienced one
of his old time twinges of remorse and pity in regard to her. For
after all, this was not her fault. She had so little to look forward
to--nothing but her work or a commonplace marriage. For the first time
in many days, really, and in the absence of both, he was able to think
clearly--and to sympathize deeply, if gloomily. For the remainder of
the letter read:)

    But it's very nice here now. The trees are so beautifully green
    and the flowers in bloom. I can hear the bees in the orchard
    whenever I go near the south windows. On the way up instead of
    coming straight home I decided to stop at Homer to see my sister
    and brother-in-law, since I am not so sure now when I shall see
    them again, if ever, for I am resolved that they shall see me
    respectable, or never at all any more. You mustn't think I mean
    anything hard or mean by this. I am just sad. They have such a cute
    little home there, Clyde--pretty furniture, a victrola and all,
    and Agnes is so very happy with Fred. I hope she always will be.
    I couldn't help thinking of what a dear place we might have had,
    if only my dreams had come true. And nearly all the time I was
    there Fred kept teasing me as to why I don't get married, until I
    said, "Oh, well, Fred, you mustn't be too sure that I won't one of
    these days. All good things come to him who waits, you know." "Yes,
    unless you just turn out to be a waiter," was the way he hit me
    back.

    But I was truly glad to see mother again, Clyde. She's so loving
    and patient and helpful. The sweetest, dearest mother that ever,
    ever was. And I just hate to hurt her in any way. And Tom and
    Emily, too. They have had friends here every evening since I've
    been here--and they want me to join in, but I hardly feel well
    enough now to do all the things they want me to do--play cards and
    games--dance.

(At this point Clyde could not help emphasizing in his own mind the
shabby home world of which she was a part and which so recently he had
seen--that rickety house! those toppling chimneys! Her uncouth father.
And that in contrast to such a letter as this other from Sondra.)

    Father and mother and Tom and Emily just seem to hang around and
    try to do things for me. And I feel remorseful when I think how
    they would feel if they knew, for, of course, I have to pretend
    that it is work that makes me feel so tired and depressed as I am
    sometimes. Mother keeps saying that I must stay a long time or quit
    entirely and rest and get well again, but she just don't know of
    course--poor dear. If she did! I can't tell you how that makes me
    feel sometimes, Clyde. Oh, dear!

    But there, I mustn't put my sad feelings over on you either. I
    don't want to, as I told you, if you will only come and get me as
    we've agreed. And I won't be like that either, Clyde. I'm not that
    way all the time now. I've started to get ready and do all the
    things it'll take to do in three weeks and that's enough to keep
    my mind off everything but work. But you will come for me, won't
    you, dear? You won't disappoint me any more and make me suffer this
    time like you have so far, for, oh, how long it has been now--ever
    since I was here before at Christmas time, really. But you were
    truly nice to me. I promise not to be a burden on you, for I know
    you don't really care for me any more and so I don't care much what
    happens now, so long as I get out of this. But I truly promise not
    to be a burden on you.

    Oh, dear, don't mind this blot. I just don't seem to be able to
    control myself these days like I once could.

    But as for what I came for. The family think they are clothes for a
    party down in Lycurgus and that I must be having a wonderful time.
    Well, it's better that way than the other. I may have to come as
    far as Fonda to get some things, if I don't send Mrs. Anse, the
    dressmaker, and if so, and if you wanted to see me again before you
    come, although I don't suppose you do, you could. I'd like to see
    you and talk to you again if you care to, before we start. It all
    seems so funny to me, Clyde, having these clothes made and wishing
    to see you so much and yet knowing that you would rather not do
    this. And yet I hope you are satisfied now that you have succeeded
    in making me leave Lycurgus and come up here and are having what
    you call a good time. Are they so very much better than the ones
    we used to have last summer, when we went about to the lakes and
    everywhere? But whatever they are, Clyde, surely you can afford to
    do this for me without feeling too bad. I know it seems hard to you
    now, but you don't want to forget either that if I was like some
    that I know, I might and would ask more. But as I told you I'm not
    like that and never could be. If you don't really want me after you
    have helped me out like I said, you can go.

    Please write me, Clyde, a long, cheery letter, even though you
    don't want to, and tell me all about how you have not thought of
    me once since I've been away or missed me at all--you used to, you
    know, and how you don't want me to come back and you can't possibly
    come up before two weeks from Saturday if then.

    Oh, dear, I don't mean the horrid things I write, but I'm so blue
    and tired and lonely that I can't help it at times. I need some one
    to talk to--not just any one here, because they don't understand,
    and I can't tell anybody.

    But there, I said I wouldn't be blue or gloomy or cross and yet I
    haven't done so very well this time, have I? But I promise to do
    better next time--to-morrow or next day, because it relieves me
    to write to you, Clyde. And won't you please write me just a few
    words to cheer me up while I'm waiting, whether you mean it or not,
    I need it so. And you will come, of course. I'll be so happy and
    grateful and try not to bother you too much in any way.

                                                            Your lonely
                                                                  BERT.

And it was the contrast presented by these two scenes which
finally determined for him the fact that he would never marry
Roberta--never--nor even go to her at Biltz, or let her come back to
him here, if he could avoid that. For would not his going, or her
return, put a period to all the joys that so recently in connection
with Sondra had come to him here--make it impossible for him to be with
Sondra at Twelfth Lake this summer--make it impossible for him to run
away with and marry her? In God's name was there no way? No outlet from
this horrible difficulty which now confronted him?

And in a fit of despair, having found the letters in his room on
his return from work one warm evening in June, he now threw himself
upon his bed and fairly groaned. The misery of this! The horror of
his almost insoluble problem! Was there no way by which she could be
persuaded to go away--and stay--remain at home, maybe for a while
longer, while he sent her ten dollars a week, or twelve, even--a
full half of all his salary? Or could she go to some neighboring
town--Fonda, Gloversville, Schenectady--she was not so far gone but
what she could take care of herself well enough as yet, and rent a room
and remain there quietly until the fatal time, when she could go to
some doctor or nurse? He might help her to find some one like that when
the time came, if only she would be willing not to mention his name.

But this business of making him come to Biltz, or meeting her
somewhere, and that within two weeks or less. He would not, he would
not. He would do something desperate if she tried to make him do
that--run away--or--maybe go up to Twelfth Lake before it should be
time for him to go to Biltz, or before she would think it was time,
and then persuade Sondra if he could--but oh, what a wild, wild chance
was that--to run away with and marry him, even if she wasn't quite
eighteen--and then--and then--being married, and her family not being
able to divorce them, and Roberta not being able to find him, either,
but only to complain--well, couldn't he deny it--say that it was not
so--that he had never had any relationship, other than that which any
department head might have with any girl working for him. He had not
been introduced to the Gilpins, nor had he gone with Roberta to see
that Dr. Glenn near Gloversville, and she had told him at the time, she
had not mentioned his name.

But the nerve of trying to deny it!

The courage it would take.

The courage to try to face Roberta when, as he knew, her steady,
accusing, horrified, innocent blue eyes would be about as difficult to
face as anything in all the world. And could he do that? Had he the
courage? And would it all work out satisfactorily if he did? Would
Sondra believe him--once she heard?

But just the same in pursuance of this idea, whether finally he
executed it or not, even though he went to Twelfth Lake, he must write
Sondra a letter saying that he was coming. And this he did at once,
writing her passionately and yearningly. At the same time he decided
not to write Roberta at all. Maybe call her on long distance, since
she had recently told him that there was a neighbor near-by who had a
telephone, and if for any reason he needed to reach her, he could use
that. For writing her in regard to all this, even in the most guarded
way, would place in her hands, and at this time, exactly the type of
evidence in regard to this relationship which she would most need, and
especially when he was so determined not to marry her. The trickery
of all this! It was low and shabby, no doubt. Yet if only Roberta had
agreed to be a little reasonable with him, he would never have dreamed
of indulging in any such low and tricky plan as this. But, oh, Sondra!
Sondra! And the great estate that she had described, lying along the
west shore of Twelfth Lake. How beautiful that must be! He could not
help it! He must act and plan as he was doing! He must!

And forthwith he arose and went to mail the letter to Sondra. And then
while out, having purchased an evening paper and hoping via the local
news of all whom he knew, to divert his mind for the time being, there,
upon the first page of the _Times-Union_ of Albany, was an item which
read:

    ACCIDENTAL DOUBLE TRAGEDY AT PASS LAKE--UPTURNED CANOE AND
    FLOATING HATS REVEAL PROBABLE LOSS OF TWO LIVES AT RESORT NEAR
    PITTSFIELD--UNIDENTIFIED BODY OF GIRL RECOVERED--THAT OF COMPANION
    STILL MISSING

Because of his own great interest in canoeing, and indeed in any form
of water life, as well as his own particular skill when it came to
rowing, swimming, diving, he now read with interest:

    Pancoast, Mass., June 7th.... What proved to be a fatal boat ride
    for two, apparently, was taken here day before yesterday by an
    unidentified man and girl who came presumably from Pittsfield to
    spend the day at Pass Lake, which is fourteen miles north of this
    place.

    Tuesday morning a man and a girl, who said to Thomas Lucas, who
    conducts the Casino Lunch and Boat House there, that they were
    from Pittsfield, rented a small row-boat about ten o'clock in the
    morning and with a basket, presumably containing lunch, departed
    for the northern end of the lake. At seven o'clock last evening,
    when they did not return, Mr. Lucas, in company with his son
    Jeffrey, made a tour of the lake in his motor boat and discovered
    the row-boat upside down in the shallows near the north shore,
    but no trace of the occupants. Thinking at the time that it might
    be another instance of renters having decamped in order to avoid
    payment, he returned the boat to his own dock.

    But this morning, doubtful as to whether or not an accident had
    occurred, he and his assistant, Fred Walsh, together with his son,
    made a second tour of the north shore and finally came upon the
    hats of both the girl and the man floating among some rushes near
    the shore. At once a dredging party was organized, and by three
    o'clock to-day the body of the girl, concerning whom nothing is
    known here, other than that she came here with her companion, was
    brought up and turned over to the authorities. That of the man has
    not yet been found. The water in the immediate vicinity of the
    accident in some places being over thirty feet deep, it is not
    certain whether the trolling and dredging will yield the other body
    or not. In the case of a similar accident which took place here
    some fifteen years ago, neither body was ever recovered.

    To the lining of the small jacket which the girl wore was sewed the
    tag of a Pittsfield dealer. Also in her shoe lining was stamped the
    name of Jacobs of this same city. But other than these there was no
    evidence as to her identity. It is assumed by the authorities here
    that if she carried a bag of any kind it lies at the bottom of the
    lake.

    The man is recalled as being tall, dark, about thirty-five years
    of age, and wore a light green suit and straw hat with a white
    and blue band. The girl appears to be not more than twenty-five,
    five feet five inches tall, and weighs 130 pounds. She wore her
    hair, which was long and dark brown, in braids about her forehead.
    On her left middle finger is a small gold ring with an amethyst
    setting. The police of Pittsfield and other cities in this vicinity
    have been notified, but as yet no word as to her identity has been
    received.

This item, commonplace enough in the usual grist of summer accidents,
interested Clyde only slightly. It seemed odd, of course, that a girl
and a man should arrive at a small lake anywhere, and setting forth
in a small boat in broad daylight thus lose their lives. Also it was
odd that afterwards no one should be able to identify either of them.
And yet here it was. The man had disappeared for good. He threw the
paper down, little concerned at first, and turned to other things--the
problem that was confronting him really--how he was to do. But
later--and because of that, and as he was putting out the light before
getting into bed, and still thinking of the complicated problem which
his own life here presented, he was struck by the thought (what devil's
whisper?--what evil hint of an evil spirit?)--supposing that he and
Roberta--no, say he and Sondra--(no, Sondra could swim so well, and so
could he)--he and Roberta were in a small boat somewhere and it should
capsize at the very time, say, of this dreadful complication which
was so harassing him? What an escape? What a relief from a gigantic
and by now really destroying problem! On the other hand--hold--not so
fast!--for could a man even think of such a solution in connection
with so difficult a problem as his without committing a crime in
his heart, really--a horrible, terrible crime? He must not even
think of such a thing. It was wrong--wrong--terribly wrong. And
yet, supposing,--by accident, of course--such a thing as this did
occur? That would be the end, then, wouldn't it, of all his troubles
in connection with Roberta? No more terror as to her--no more fear
and heartache even as to Sondra. A noiseless, pathless, quarrelless
solution of all his present difficulties, and only joy before him
forever. Just an accidental, unpremeditated drowning--and then the
glorious future which would be his!

But the mere thinking of such a thing in connection with Roberta at
this time--(why was it that his mind persisted in identifying her with
it?) was terrible, and he must not, he must not, allow such a thought
to enter his mind. Never, never, never! He must not. It was horrible!
Terrible! A thought of murder, no less! Murder?!!! Yet so wrought up
had he been, and still was, by the letter which Roberta had written
him, as contrasted with the one from Sondra--so delightful and enticing
was the picture of her life and his as she now described it, that he
could not for the life of him quite expel that other and seemingly easy
and so natural a solution of all his problem--if only such an accident
could occur to him and Roberta. For after all he was not planning any
crime, was he? Was he not merely thinking of an accident that, had it
occurred or could it but occur in his case.... Ah--but that "_could it
but occur_." There was the dark and evil thought about which he must
not, _he must not think_. He MUST NOT. And yet--and yet,...
He was an excellent swimmer and could swim ashore, no doubt--whatever
the distance. Whereas Roberta, as he knew from swimming with her at one
beach and another the previous summer, could not swim. And then--and
then--well and then, unless he chose to help her, of course....

As he thought, and for the time, sitting in the lamplight of his own
room between nine-thirty and ten at night, a strange and disturbing
creepiness as to flesh and hair and finger-tips assailed him. The
wonder and the horror of such a thought! And presented to him by this
paper in this way. Wasn't that strange? Besides, up in that lake
country to which he was now going to Sondra, were many, many lakes
about everywhere--were there not? Scores up there where Sondra was.
Or so she had said. And Roberta loved the out-of-doors and the water
so--although she could not swim--could not swim--could not swim. And
they or at least he was going where lakes were, or they might, might
they not--and if not, why not? since both had talked of some Fourth of
July resort in their planning, their final departure--he and Roberta.

But, no! no! The mere thought of an accident such as that in connection
with her, however much he might wish to be rid of her--was sinful,
dark and terrible! He must not let his mind run on any such things for
even a moment. It was too wrong--too vile--too terrible! Oh, dreadful
thought! To think it should have come to him! And at this time of all
times--when she was demanding that he go away with her!

Death!

Murder!

The murder of Roberta!

But to escape her of course--this unreasonable, unshakable,
unchangeable demand of hers! Already he was quite cold, quite
damp--with the mere thought of it. And now--when--when----! But he must
not think of that! The death of that unborn child, too!!

But how could any one even think of doing any such thing with
calculation--deliberately? And yet--many people were drowned like
that--boys and girls--men and women--here and there--everywhere the
world over in the summer time. To be sure, he would not want anything
like that to happen to Roberta. And especially at this time. He was not
that kind of a person, whatever else he was. He was not. He was not. He
was not. The mere thought now caused a damp perspiration to form on his
hands and face. He was not that kind of a person. Decent, sane people
did not think of such things. And so he would not either--from this
hour on.

In a tremulous state of dissatisfaction with himself--that any such
grisly thought should have dared to obtrude itself upon him in this
way--he got up and lit the lamp--re-read this disconcerting item in as
cold and reprobative way as he could achieve, feeling that in so doing
he was putting anything at which it hinted far from him once and for
all. Then, having done so, he dressed and went out of the house for a
walk--up Wykeagy Avenue, along Central Avenue, out Oak, and then back
on Spruce and to Central again--feeling that he was walking away from
the insinuating thought or suggestion that had so troubled him up to
now. And after a time, feeling better, freer, more natural, more human,
as he so much wished to feel--he returned to his room, once more to
sleep, with the feeling that he had actually succeeded in eliminating
completely a most insidious and horrible visitation. He must never
think of it again! He must never think of it again. He must never,
never, never think of it--never.

And then falling into a nervous, feverish doze soon thereafter, he
found himself dreaming of a savage black dog that was trying to bite
him. Having escaped from the fangs of the creature by waking in terror,
he once more fell asleep. But now he was in some very strange and
gloomy place, a wood or a cave or narrow canyon between deep hills,
from which a path, fairly promising at first, seemed to lead. But soon
the path, as he progressed along it, became narrower and narrower and
darker, and finally disappeared entirely. And then, turning to see if
he could not get back as he had come, there directly behind him were
arrayed an entangled mass of snakes that at first looked more like a
pile of brush. But above it waved the menacing heads of at least a
score of reptiles, forked tongues and agate eyes. And in front now,
as he turned swiftly, a horned and savage animal--huge, it was--its
heavy tread crushing the brush--blocked the path in that direction. And
then, horrified and crying out in hopeless desperation, once more he
awoke--not to sleep again that night.




                             CHAPTER XLIII


Yet a thought such as that of the lake, connected as it was with the
predicament by which he was being faced, and shrink from it though he
might, was not to be dismissed as easily as he desired. Born as it was
of its accidental relation to this personal problem that was shaking
and troubling and all but disarranging his own none-too-forceful mind,
this smooth, seemingly blameless, if dreadful, blotting out of two
lives at Pass Lake, had its weight. That girl's body--as some peculiar
force in his own brain now still compelled him to think--being found,
but the man's not. In that interesting fact--and this quite in spite of
himself--lurked a suggestion that insisted upon obtruding itself on his
mind--to wit, that it might be possible that the man's body was not in
that lake at all. For, since evil-minded people did occasionally desire
to get rid of other people, might it not be possible that that man had
gone there with that girl in order to get rid of her? A very smooth and
devilish trick, of course, but one which, in this instance at least,
seemed to have succeeded admirably.

But as for him accepting such an evil suggestion and acting upon
it ... never! Yet here was his own problem growing hourly more
desperate, since every day, or at least every other day, brought him
either letters from Roberta or a note from Sondra--their respective
missives maintaining the same relative contrast between ease and
misery, gayety of mood and the somberness of defeat and uncertainty.

To Roberta, since he would not write her, he was telephoning briefly
and in as non-committal a manner as possible. How was she? He was so
glad to hear from her and to know that she was out in the country and
at home, where it must be much nicer than in the factory here in this
weather. Everything was going smoothly, of course, and except for a
sudden rush of orders which made it rather hard these last two days,
all was as before. He was doing his best to save a certain amount of
money for a certain project about which she knew, but otherwise he
was not worrying about anything--and she must not. He had not written
before because of the work, and could not write much--there were so
many things to do--but he missed seeing her in her old place, and was
looking forward to seeing her again soon. If she were coming down
toward Lycurgus as she said, and really thought it important to see
him, well, that could be arranged, maybe--but was it necessary right
now? He was so very busy and expected to see her later, of course.

But at the same time he was writing Sondra that assuredly on the
eighteenth, and the week-end following, if possible, he would be with
her.

So, by virtue of such mental prestidigitation and tergiversation,
inspired and animated as it was by his desire for Sondra, his
inability to face the facts in connection with Roberta, he achieved
the much-coveted privilege of again seeing her, over one week-end at
least, and in such a setting as never before in his life had he been
privileged to witness.

For as he came down to the public dock at Sharon, adjoining the veranda
of the inn at the foot of Twelfth Lake, he was met by Bertine and her
brother as well as Sondra, who, in Grant's launch, had motored down
the Chain to pick him up. The bright blue waters of the Indian Chain.
The tall, dark, spear pines that sentineled the shores on either side
and gave to the waters at the west a band of black shadow where the
trees were mirrored so clearly. The small and large, white and pink
and green and brown lodges on every hand, with their boathouses.
Pavilions by the shore. An occasional slender pier reaching out from
some spacious and at times stately summer lodge, such as those now
owned by the Cranstons, Finchleys and others. The green and blue canoes
and launches. The gay hotel and pavilion at Pine Point already smartly
attended by the early arrivals here! And then the pier and boathouse
of the Cranston Lodge itself, with two Russian wolfhounds recently
acquired by Bertine lying on the grass near the shore, apparently
awaiting her return, and a servant John, one of a half dozen who
attended the family here, waiting to take the single bag of Clyde,
his tennis racquet and golf sticks. But most of all he was impressed
by the large rambling and yet smartly-designed house, with its bright
geranium-bordered walks, its wide, brown, wicker-studded veranda
commanding a beautiful view of the lake; the cars and personalities of
the various guests, who in golf, tennis or lounging clothes were to be
seen idling here and there.

At Bertine's request, John at once showed him to a spacious room
overlooking the lake, where it was his privilege now to bathe and
change for tennis with Sondra, Bertine and Grant. After dinner, as
explained by Sondra, who was over at Bertine's for the occasion, he
was to come over with Bertine and Grant to the Casino, where he would
be introduced to such as all here knew. There was to be dancing.
To-morrow, in the morning early, before breakfast, if he chose--he
should ride with her and Bertine and Stuart along a wonderful woodland
trail through the forests to the west which led to Inspiration Point
and a more distant view of the lake. And, as he now learned, except
for a few such paths as this, the forest was trackless for forty
miles. Without a compass or guide, as he was told, one might wander
to one's death even--so evasive were directions to those who did not
know. And after breakfast and a swim she and Bertine and Nina Temple
would demonstrate their new skill with Sondra's aquaplane. After that,
lunch, tennis, or golf, a trip to the Casino for tea. After dinner at
the lodge of the Brookshaws of Utica across the lake, there was to be
dancing.

Within an hour after his arrival, as Clyde could see, the program for
the week-end was already full. But that he and Sondra would contrive
not only moments but possibly hours together he well knew. And then
he would see what new delight, in connection with her many-faceted
temperament, the wonderful occasion would provide. To him, in spite of
the dour burden of Roberta, which for this one week-end at least he
could lay aside, it was as though he were in Paradise.

And on the tennis grounds of the Cranstons, it seemed as though never
before had Sondra, attired in a short, severe white tennis skirt and
blouse, with a yellow-and-green dotted handkerchief tied about her
hair, seemed so gay, graceful and happy. The smile that was upon her
lips! The gay, laughing light of promise that was in her eyes whenever
she glanced at him! And now and then, in running to serve him, it was
as though she were poised bird-like in flight--her racquet arm high, a
single toe seeming barely to touch the ground, her head thrown back,
her lips parted and smiling always. And in calling twenty love, thirty
love, forty love, it was always with a laughing accent on the word
love, which at once thrilled and saddened him, as he saw, and rejoiced
in from one point of view, she was his to take, if only he were free to
take her now. But this other black barrier which he himself had built!

And then this scene, where a bright sun poured a flood of crystal light
upon a greensward that stretched from tall pines to the silver rippling
waters of a lake. And off shore in a half dozen different directions
the bright white sails of small boats--the white and green and yellow
splashes of color, where canoes paddled by idling lovers were passing
in the sun! Summertime--leisure--warmth--color--ease--beauty--love--all
that he had dreamed of the summer before, when he was so very much
alone.

At moments it seemed to Clyde that he would reel from very joy of the
certain fulfillment of a great desire, that was all but immediately
within his control; at other times (the thought of Roberta sweeping
down upon him as an icy wind), as though nothing could be more sad,
terrible, numbing to the dreams of beauty, love and happiness than
this which now threatened him. That terrible item about the lake and
those two people drowned! The probability that in spite of his wild
plan within a week, or two or three at most, he would have to leave all
this forever. And then of a sudden he would wake to realize that he was
fumbling or playing badly--that Bertine or Sondra or Grant was calling:
"Oh, Clyde, what are you thinking of, anyhow?" And from the darkest
depths of his heart he would have answered, had he spoken, "Roberta."

At the Brookshaws', again, that evening, a smart company of friends of
Sondra's, Bertine's and others. On the dance floor a reëncounter with
Sondra, all smiles, for she was pretending for the benefit of others
here--her mother and father in particular--that she had not seen Clyde
before--did not even know that he was here.

"You up here? That's great. Over at the Cranstons'? Oh, isn't that
dandy? Right next door to us. Well, we'll see a lot of each other,
what? How about a canter to-morrow before seven? Bertine and I go
nearly every day. And we'll have a picnic to-morrow, if nothing
interferes, canoeing and motoring. Don't worry about not riding well.
I'll get Bertine to let you have Jerry--he's just a sheep. And you
don't need to worry about togs, either. Grant has scads of things. I'll
dance the next two dances with others, but you sit out the third one
with me, will you? I know a peach of a place outside on the balcony."

She was off with fingers extended but with a "we-understand-each-other"
look in her eye. And outside in the shadow later she pulled his face to
hers when no one was looking and kissed him eagerly, and, before the
evening was over, they had managed, by strolling along a path which led
away from the house along the lake shore, to embrace under the moon.

"Sondra so glad Clydie here. Misses him so much." She smoothed his
hair as he kissed her, and Clyde, bethinking him of the shadow which
lay so darkly between them, crushed her feverishly, desperately. "Oh,
my darling baby girl," he exclaimed. "My beautiful, beautiful Sondra!
If you only knew how much I love you! If you only knew! I wish I could
tell you _all_. I wish I could."

But he could not now--or ever. He would never dare to speak to her of
even so much as a phase of the black barrier that now lay between them.
For, with her training, the standards of love and marriage that had
been set for her, she would never understand, never be willing to make
so great a sacrifice for love, as much as she loved him. And he would
be left, abandoned on the instant, and with what horror in her eyes!

Yet looking into his eyes, his face white and tense, and the glow of
the moon above making small white electric sparks in his eyes, she
exclaimed as he gripped her tightly: "Does he love Sondra so much?
Oh, sweetie boy! Sondra loves him, too." She seized his head between
her hands and held it tight, kissing him swiftly and ardently a dozen
times. "And Sondra won't give her Clydie up either. She won't. You just
wait and see! It doesn't matter what happens now. It may not be so very
easy, but she won't." Then as suddenly and practically, as so often
was her way, she exclaimed: "But we must go now, right away. No, not
another kiss now. No, no, Sondra says no, now. They'll be missing us."
And straightening up and pulling him by the arm she hurried him back to
the house in time to meet Palmer Thurston, who was looking for her.

The next morning, true to her promise, there was the canter to
Inspiration Point, and that before seven--Bertine and Sondra in bright
red riding coats and white breeches and black boots, their hair unbound
and loose to the wind, and riding briskly on before for the most part,
then racing back to where he was. Or Sondra halloing gaily for him
to come on, or the two of them laughing and chatting a hundred yards
ahead in some concealed chapel of the aisled trees where he could not
see them. And because of the interest which Sondra was so obviously
manifesting in him these days--an interest which Bertine herself
had begun to feel might end in marriage, if no family complications
arose to interfere--she, Bertine, was all smiles, the very soul of
cordiality, winsomely insisting that he should come up and stay for
the summer and she would chaperon them both so that no one would have
a chance to complain. And Clyde thrilling, and yet brooding too--by
turns--occasionally--and in spite of himself drifting back to the
thought that the item in the paper had inspired--and yet fighting
it--trying to shut it out entirely.

And then at one point, Sondra, turning down a steep path which led to a
stony and moss-lipped spring between the dark trees, called to Clyde
to "Come on down. Jerry knows the way. He won't slip. Come and get a
drink. If you do, you'll come back again soon--so they say."

And once he was down and had dismounted to drink, she exclaimed: "I've
been wanting to tell you something. You should have seen Mamma's face
last night when she heard you were up here. She can't be sure that I
had anything to do with it, of course, because she thinks that Bertine
likes you, too. I made her think that. But just the same she suspects
that I had a hand in it, I guess, and she doesn't quite like it. But
she can't say anything more than she has before. And I had a talk with
Bertine just now and she's agreed to stick by me and help me all she
can. But we'll have to be even more careful than ever now, because I
think if Mamma got too suspicious I don't know what she might do--want
us to leave here, even now maybe, just so I couldn't see you. You
know she feels that I shouldn't be interested in any one yet except
some one she likes. You know how it is. She's that way with Stuart,
too. But if you'll take care not to show that you care for me so much
whenever we're around any one of our crowd, I don't think she'll do
anything--not now, anyhow. Later on, in the fall, when we're back in
Lycurgus, things will be different. I'll be of age then, and I'm going
to see what I can do. I never loved any one before, but I do love you,
and, well, I won't give you up, that's all. I won't. And they can't
make me, either!"

She stamped her foot and struck her boot, the while the two horses
looked idly and vacantly about. And Clyde, enthused and astonished by
this second definite declaration in his behalf, as well as fired by the
thought that now, if ever, he might suggest the elopement and marriage
and so rid himself of the sword that hung so threateningly above him,
now gazed at Sondra, his eyes filled with a nervous hope and a nervous
fear. For she might refuse, and change, too, shocked by the suddenness
of his suggestion. And he had no money and no place in mind where
they might go either, in case she accepted his proposal. But she had,
perhaps, or she might have. And having once consented, might she not
help him? Of course. At any rate, he felt that he must speak, leaving
luck or ill luck to the future.

And so he said: "Why couldn't you run away with me now, Sondra,
darling? It's so long until fall and I want you so much. Why couldn't
we? Your mother's not likely to want to let you marry me then, anyhow.
But if we went away now, she couldn't help herself, could she? And
afterwards, in a few months or so, you could write her and then she
wouldn't mind. Why couldn't we, Sondra?" His voice was very pleading,
his eyes full of a sad dread of refusal--and of the future that lay
unprotected behind that.

And by now so caught was she by the tremor with which his mood
invested him, that she paused--not really shocked by the suggestion
at all--but decidedly moved, as well as flattered by the thought that
she was able to evoke in Clyde so eager and headlong a passion. He
was so impetuous--so blazing now with a flame of her own creating,
as she felt, yet which she was incapable of feeling as much as he,
as she knew--such a flame as she had never seen in him or any one
else before. And would it not be wonderful if she could run away with
him now--secretly--to Canada or New York or Boston, or anywhere? The
excitement her elopement would create here and elsewhere--in Lycurgus,
Albany, Utica! The talk and feeling in her own family as well as
elsewhere! And Gilbert would be related to her in spite of him--and the
Griffiths, too, whom her mother and father so much admired.

For a moment there was written in her eyes the desire and the
determination almost, to do as he suggested--run away--make a great
lark of this, her intense and true love. For, once married, what could
her parents do? And was not Clyde worthy of her and them, too? Of
course--even though nearly all in her set fancied that he was not quite
all he should be, just because he didn't have as much money as they
had. But he would have--would he not--after he was married to her--and
get as good a place in her father's business as Gil Griffiths had in
his father's?

Yet a moment later, thinking of her life here and what her going off in
such a way would mean to her father and mother just then--in the very
beginning of the summer season--as well as how it would disrupt her own
plans and cause her mother to feel especially angry, and perhaps even
to bring about the dissolution of the marriage on the ground that she
was not of age, she paused--that gay light of adventure replaced by a
marked trace of the practical and the material that so persistently
characterized her. What difference would a few months make, anyhow? It
might, and no doubt would, save Clyde from being separated from her
forever, whereas their present course might insure their separation.

Accordingly she now shook her head in a certain, positive and yet
affectionate way, which by now Clyde had come to know spelled
defeat--the most painful and irremediable defeat that had yet come
to him in connection with all this. She would not go! Then he was
lost--lost--and she to him forever maybe. Oh, God! For while her face
softened with a tenderness which was not usually there--even when
she was most moved emotionally--she said: "I would, honey, if I did
not think it best not to, now. It's too soon. Mamma isn't going to
do anything right now. I know she isn't. Besides she has made all
her plans to do a lot of entertaining here this summer, and for my
particular benefit. She wants me to be nice to--well, you know who I
mean. And I can be, without doing anything to interfere with us in any
way, I'm sure--so long as I don't do anything to really frighten her."
She paused to smile a reassuring smile. "But you can come up here as
often as you choose, don't you see, and she and these others won't
think anything of it, because you won't be our guest, don't you see?
I've fixed all that with Bertine. And that means that we can see each
other all summer long up here, just about as much as we want to, don't
you see? Then in the fall, when I come back, and if I find that I can't
make her be nice to you at all, or consider our being engaged, why, I
will run away with you. Yes, I will, darling--really and truly."

Darling! The fall!

She stopped, her eyes showing a very shrewd conception of all the
practical difficulties before them, while she took both of his hands in
hers and looked up into his face. Then, impulsively and conclusively,
she threw both arms about his neck and, pulling his head down, kissed
him.

"Can't you see, dearie? Please don't look so sad, darling. Sondra loves
her Clyde so much. And she'll do anything and everything to make things
come out right. Yes, she will. And they will, too. Now you wait and
see. She won't give him up ever--ever!"

And Clyde, realizing that he had not one moving argument wherewith
to confront her, really--not one that might not cause her to think
strangely and suspiciously of his intense anxiety, and that this,
because of Roberta's demand, and unless--unless--well--, unless Roberta
let him go it all spelled defeat for him, now looked gloomily and even
desperately upon her face. The beauty of her! The completeness of
this world! And yet not to be allowed to possess her or it, ever. And
Roberta with her demand and his promise in the immediate background!
And no way of escape save by flight! God!

At this point it was that a nervous and almost deranged look--never so
definite or powerful at any time before in his life--the border-line
look between reason and unreason, no less--so powerful that the
quality of it was even noticeable to Sondra--came into his eyes. He
looked sick, broken, unbelievably despairing. So much so that she
exclaimed, "Why, what is it, Clyde, dearie--you look so--oh, I can't
say just how--forlorn or--Does he love me so much? And can't he wait
just three or four months? But, oh, yes he can, too. It isn't as bad as
he thinks. He'll be with me most of the time--the lovekins will. And
when he isn't, Sondra'll write him every day--every day."

"But, Sondra! Sondra! If I could just tell you. If you knew how much it
were going to mean to me----"

He paused here, for as he could see at this point, into the expression
of Sondra came a practical inquiry as to what it was that made it so
urgent for her to leave with him at once. And immediately, on his part,
Clyde sensing how enormous was the hold of this world on her--how
integral a part of it she was--and how, by merely too much insistence
here and now, he might so easily cause her to doubt the wisdom of her
primary craze for him, was moved to desist, sure that if he spoke it
would lead her to questioning him in such a way as might cause her to
change--or at least to modify her enthusiasm to the point where even
the dream of the fall might vanish.

And so, instead of explaining further why he needed a decision on her
part, he merely desisted, saying: "It's because I need you so much
now, dear--all of the time. That's it, just that. It seems at times as
though I could never be away from you another minute any more. Oh, I'm
so hungry for you all of the time."

And yet Sondra, flattered as she was by this hunger, and reciprocating
it in part at least, merely repeated the various things she had said
before. They must wait. All would come out all right in the fall.
And Clyde, quite numb because of his defeat, yet unable to forego or
deny the delight of being with her now, did his best to recover his
mood--and think, think, think that in some way--somehow--maybe via that
plan of that boat or in some other way!

But what other way?

But no, no, no--not that. He was not a murderer and never could be. He
was not a murderer--never--never--never.

And yet this loss.

This impending disaster.

This impending disaster.

How to avoid that and win to Sondra after all.

How, how, how?




                             CHAPTER XLIV


And then on his return to Lycurgus early Monday morning, the following
letter from Roberta,

    DEAR CLYDE:

    My dear, I have often heard the saying, "it never rains but it
    pours," but I never knew what it meant until to-day. About the
    first person I saw this morning was Mr. Wilcox, a neighbor of ours,
    who came to say that Mrs. Anse would not be out to-day on account
    of some work she had to do for Mrs. Dinwiddie in Biltz, although
    when she left yesterday everything had been prepared for her so
    that I could help her a little with the sewing and so hurry things
    up a bit. And now she won't be here until to-morrow. Next word came
    that Mother's sister, Mrs. Nichols, is very ill and Mother had to
    go over to her house at Baker's Pond, which is about twelve miles
    east of here, Tom driving her, although he ought to be here to help
    father with all the work that there is to do about the farm. And I
    don't know if Mother will be able to get back before Sunday. If I
    were better and didn't have all this work of my own on my hands I
    would have to go too, I suppose, although Mother insists not.

    Next, Emily and Tom, thinking all is going so well with me and that
    I might enjoy it, were having four girls and four boys come here
    to-night for a sort of June moon-party, with ice cream and cake to
    be made by Emily and Mother and myself. But now, poor dear, she has
    to do a lot of telephoning over Mr. Wilcox's phone, which we share,
    in order to put it off until some day next week, if possible. And
    she's just heartsick and gloomy, of course.

    As for myself, I'm trying to keep a stiff upper lip, as the saying
    is. But it's pretty hard, dear, I'll tell you. For so far I have
    only had three small telephone talks with you, saying that you
    didn't think you would have the necessary money before July fifth.
    And to put the finishing touches on it, as I only learned to-day,
    Mamma and Papa have about decided to go to my Uncle Charlie's in
    Hamilton for over the fourth (from the fourth to the fifteenth) and
    take me with them, unless I decide to return to Lycurgus, while
    Tom and Emily visit with my sister at Homer. But, dear, I can't do
    that, as you know. I'm too sick and worried. Last night I vomited
    dreadful and have been half dead on my feet all day, and I am just
    about crazy to-night.

    Dear, what can we do? Can't you come for me before July third,
    which will be the time they will be going? You will have to come
    for me before then, really, because I just can't go up there
    with them. It's fifty miles from here. I could say I would go
    up there with them if only you would be sure to come for me
    before they start. But I must be absolutely sure that you are
    coming--absolutely.

    Clyde, I have done nothing but cry since I got here. If you were
    only here I wouldn't feel so badly. I do try to be brave, dear,
    but how can I help thinking at times that you will never come for
    me when you haven't written me one single note and have only talked
    to me three times since I've been up here. But then I say to myself
    you couldn't be so mean as that, and especially since you have
    promised. Oh, you will come, won't you? Everything worries me so
    now, Clyde, for some reason and I'm so frightened, dear. I think of
    last summer and then this one, and all my dreams. It won't make any
    real difference to you about your coming a few days sooner than you
    intended, will it, dear? Even if we have to get along on a little
    less. I know that we can. I can be very saving and economical. I
    will try to have my dresses made by then. If not, I will do with
    what I have and finish them later. And I will try and be very
    brave, dear, and not annoy you much, if only you will come. You
    must, you know, Clyde. It can't be any other way, although for your
    sake now I wish it could.

    Please, please, Clyde, write and tell me that you will be here at
    the end of the time that you said. I worry so and get so lonesome
    off here all by myself. I will come straight back to see you if
    you don't come by the time you said. I know you will not like me
    to say this, but, Clyde, I can't stay here and that's all there is
    to it. And I can't go away with Mamma and Papa either, so there is
    only one way out. I don't believe I will sleep a wink to-night, so
    please write me and in your letter tell me over and over not to
    worry about your not coming for me. If you could only come to-day,
    dear, or this week-end, I wouldn't feel so blue. But nearly two
    weeks more! Every one is in bed and the house is still, so I will
    stop.

    But please write me, dear, right away, or if you won't do that call
    me up sure to-morrow, because I just can't rest one single minute
    until I do hear from you.

                                                Your miserable ROBERTA.

    P. S.: This is a horrid letter, but I just can't write a better
    one. I'm so blue.

But the day this letter arrived in Lycurgus Clyde was not there to
answer it at once. And because of that, Roberta being in the darkest
and most hysterical mood and thought, sat down on Saturday afternoon
and, half-convinced as she was that he might already have departed
for some distant point without any word to her, almost shrieked or
screamed, if one were to properly characterize the mood that animated
the following:

    Biltz, Saturday, June 14th.

    MY DEAR CLYDE:

    I am writing to tell you that I am coming back to Lycurgus. I
    simply can't stay here any longer. Mamma worries and wonders why I
    cry so much, and I am just about sick. I know I promised to stay
    until the 25th or 26th, but then you said you would write me, but
    you never have--only an occasional telephone message when I am
    almost crazy. I woke up this morning and couldn't help crying right
    away and this afternoon my headache is dreadful.

    I'm so afraid you won't come and I'm so frightened, dear. Please
    come and take me away some place, anywhere, so I can get out of
    here and not worry like I do. I'm so afraid in the state that I'm
    in that Papa and Mamma may make me tell the whole affair or that
    they will find it out for themselves.

    Oh, Clyde, you will never know. You have said you would come,
    and sometimes I just know you will. But at other times I get to
    thinking about other things and I'm just as certain you won't,
    especially when you don't write or telephone. I wish you would
    write and say that you will come just so I can stand to stay here.
    Just as soon as you get this, I wish you would write me and tell
    me the exact day you can come--not later than the first, really,
    because I know I cannot stand to stay here any longer than then.
    Clyde, there isn't a girl in the whole world as miserable as I am,
    and you have made me so. But I don't mean that, either, dear. You
    were good to me once, and you are now, offering to come for me.
    And if you will come right away I will be so grateful. And when
    you read this, if you think I am unreasonable, please do not mind
    it, Clyde, but just think I am crazy with grief and worry and that
    I just don't know what to do. Please write me, Clyde. If you only
    knew how I need a word.

                                                               ROBERTA.

This letter, coupled as it was with a threat to come to Lycurgus,
was sufficient to induce in Clyde a state not unlike Roberta's. To
think that he had no additional, let alone plausible, excuse to offer
Roberta whereby she could be induced to delay her final and imperative
demand. He racked his brains. He must not write her any long and
self-incriminating letters. That would be foolish in the face of his
determination not to marry her. Besides his mood at the moment, so
fresh from the arms and kisses of Sondra, was not for anything like
that. He could not, even if he would.

At the same time, something must be done at once, as he could see, in
order to allay her apparently desperate mood. And ten minutes after he
had finished reading the last of these two letters, he was attempting
to reach Roberta over the telephone. And finally getting her after
a troublesome and impatient half-hour, he heard her voice, thin and
rather querulous as it seemed to him at first, but really only because
of a poor connection, saying: "Hello, Clyde, hello. Oh, I'm so glad you
called. I've been terribly nervous. Did you get my two letters? I was
just about to leave here in the morning if I didn't hear from you by
then. I just couldn't stand not to hear anything. Where have you been,
dear? Did you read what I said about my parents going away? That's
true. Why don't you write, Clyde, or call me up anyhow? What about what
I said in my letter about the third? Will you be sure and come then? Or
shall I meet you somewhere? I've been so nervous the last three or four
days, but now that I hear you again, maybe I'll be able to quiet down
some. But I do wish you would write me a note every few days anyhow.
Why won't you, Clyde? You haven't even written me one since I've been
here. I can't tell you what a state I'm in and how hard it is to keep
calm now."

Plainly Roberta was very nervous and fearsome as she talked. As a
matter of fact, except that the home in which she was telephoning was
deserted at the moment she was talking very indiscreetly, it seemed to
Clyde. And it aided but little in his judgment for her to explain that
she was all alone and that no one could hear her. He did not want her
to use his name or refer to letters written to him.

Without talking too plainly, he now tried to make it clear that he was
very busy and that it was hard for him to write as much as she might
think necessary. Had he not said that he was coming on the 28th or
thereabouts if he could? Well, he would if he could, only it looked
now as though it might be necessary for him to postpone it for another
week or so, until the seventh or eighth of July--long enough for him to
get together an extra fifty for which he had a plan, and which would
be necessary for him to have. But really, which was the thought behind
this other, long enough for him to pay one more visit to Sondra as he
was yearning to do, over the next week-end. But this demand of hers,
now! Couldn't she go with her parents for a week or so and then let him
come for her there or she come to him? It would give him more needed
time, and----

But at this Roberta, bursting forth in a storm of nervous
disapproval--saying that most certainly if that were the case she was
going back to her room at the Gilpins', if she could get it, and not
waste her time up there getting ready and waiting for him when he was
not coming--he suddenly decided that he might as well say that he was
coming on the third, or that if he did not, that at least by then he
would have arranged with her where to meet him. For even by now, he had
not made up his mind as to how he was to do. He must have a little more
time to think--more time to think.

And so now he altered his tone greatly and said: "But listen, Bert.
Please don't be angry with me. You talk as though I didn't have any
troubles in connection with all this, either. You don't know what this
may be going to cost me before I'm through with it, and you don't
seem to care much. I know you're worried and all that, but what about
me? I'm doing the very best I can now, Bert, with all I have to think
about. And won't you just be patient now until the third, anyhow?
Please do. I promise to write you and if I don't, I'll call you up
every other day. Will that be all right? But I certainly don't want
you to be using my name like you did a while ago. That will lead to
trouble, sure. Please don't. And when I call again, I'll just say
it's Mr. Baker asking, see, and you can say it's any one you like
afterwards. And then, if by any chance anything should come up that
would stop our starting exactly on the third, why you can come back
here if you want to, see, or somewhere near here, and then we can start
as soon as possible after that."

His tone was so pleading and soothing, infused as it was--but because
of his present necessity only with a trace of that old tenderness and
seeming helplessness which, at times, had quite captivated Roberta,
that even now it served to win her to a bizarre and groundless
gratitude. So much so that at once she had replied, warmly and
emotionally, even: "Oh, no, dear. I don't want to do anything like
that. You know I don't. It's just because things are so bad as they are
with me and I can't help myself now. You know that, Clyde, don't you? I
can't help loving you. I always will, I suppose. And I don't want to do
anything to hurt you, dear, really I don't if I can help it."

And Clyde, hearing the ring of genuine affection, and sensing anew
his old-time power over her, was disposed to reënact the rôle of
lover again, if only in order to dissuade Roberta from being too
harsh and driving with him now. For while he could not like her now,
he told himself, and could not think of marrying her, still in view
of this other dream he could at least be gracious to her--could he
not?--Pretend! And so this conversation ended with a new peace based on
this agreement.

       *       *       *       *       *

The preceding day--a day of somewhat reduced activities on the lakes
from which he had just returned--he and Sondra and Stuart and Bertine,
together with Nina Temple and a youth named Harley Baggott, then
visiting the Thurstons, had motored first from Twelfth Lake to Three
Mile Bay, a small lakeside resort some twenty-five miles north, and
from thence, between towering walls of pines, to Big Bittern and some
other smaller lakes lost in the recesses of the tall pines of the
region to the north of Trine Lake. And en route, Clyde, as he now
recalled, had been most strangely impressed at moments and in spots by
the desolate and for the most part lonely character of the region. The
narrow and rain-washed and even rutted nature of the dirt roads that
wound between tall, silent and darksome trees--forests in the largest
sense of the word--that extended for miles and miles apparently on
either hand. The decadent and weird nature of some of the bogs and
tarns on either side of the only comparatively passable dirt roads
which here and there were festooned with funereal or viperous vines,
and strewn like deserted battlefields with soggy and decayed piles of
fallen and criss-crossed logs--in places as many as four deep--one
above the other--in the green slime that an undrained depression in the
earth had accumulated. The eyes and backs of occasional frogs that,
upon lichen or vine or moss-covered stumps and rotting logs in this
warm June weather, there sunned themselves apparently undisturbed; the
spirals of gnats, the solitary flick of a snake's tail as disturbed by
the sudden approach of the machine, one made off into the muck and the
poisonous grasses and water-plants which were thickly imbedded in it.

And in seeing one of these Clyde, for some reason, had thought of the
accident at Pass Lake. He did not realize it, but at the moment his own
subconscious need was contemplating the loneliness and the usefulness
at times of such a lone spot as this. And at one point it was that a
wier-wier, one of the solitary water-birds of this region, uttered its
ouphe and barghest cry, flying from somewhere near into some darker
recess within the woods. And at this sound it was that Clyde had
stirred nervously and then sat up in the car. It was so very different
to any bird-cry he had ever heard anywhere.

"What was that?" he asked of Harley Baggott, who sat next him.

"What?"

"Why, that bird or something that just flew away back there just now?"

"I didn't hear any bird."

"Gee! That was a queer sound. It makes me feel creepy."

As interesting and impressive as anything else to him in this almost
tenantless region had been the fact that there were so many lonesome
lakes, not one of which he had ever heard of before. The territory
through which they were speeding as fast as the dirt roads would
permit, was dotted with them in these deep forests of pine. And only
occasionally in passing near one, were there any signs indicating a
camp or lodge, and those to be reached only by some half-blazed trail
or rutty or sandy road disappearing through darker trees. In the main,
the shores of the more remote lakes passed, were all but untenanted,
or so sparsely that a cabin or a distant lodge to be seen across the
smooth waters of some pine-encircled gem was an object of interest to
all.

Why must he think of that other lake in Massachusetts! That boat! The
body of that girl found--but not that of the man who accompanied her!
How terrible, really!

He recalled afterwards,--here in his room, after this last conversation
with Roberta--that the car, after a few more miles, had finally swung
into an open space at the north end of a long narrow lake--the south
prospect of which appeared to be divided by a point or an island
suggesting a greater length and further windings or curves than were
visible from where the car had stopped. And except for the small lodge
and boathouse at this upper end it had appeared so very lonesome--not
a launch or canoe on it at the time their party arrived. And as in
the case of all the other lakes seen this day, the banks to the
very shore line were sentineled with those same green pines--tall,
spear-shaped--their arms widespread like one outside his window here in
Lycurgus. And beyond them in the distance, to the south and west, rose
the humped and still smooth and green backs of the nearer Adirondacks.
And the water before them, now ruffled by a light wind and glowing in
the afternoon sun, was of an intense Prussian blue, almost black, which
suggested, as was afterwards confirmed by a guide who was lounging
upon the low veranda of the small inn--that it was very deep--"all of
seventy feet not more than a hundred feet out from that boathouse."

And at this point Harley Baggott, who was interested to learn more
about the fishing possibilities of this lake in behalf of his father,
who contemplated coming to this region in a few days, had inquired of
the guide who appeared not to look at the others in the car: "How long
is this lake, anyhow?"

"Oh, about seven miles." "Any fish in it?" "Throw a line in and see.
The best place for black bass and the like of that almost anywhere
around here. Off the island down yonder, or just to the south of it
round on the other side there, there's a little bay that's said to be
one of the best fishin' holes in any of the lakes up this way. I've
seen a coupla men bring back as many as seventy-five fish in two hours.
That oughta satisfy anybody that ain't tryin' to ruin the place for the
rest of us."

The guide, a thinnish, tall and wizened type, with a long, narrow
head and small, keen, bright blue eyes laughed a yokelish laugh as he
studied the group. "Not thinkin' of tryin' your luck to-day?"

"No, just inquiring for my dad. He's coming up here next week, maybe. I
want to see about accommodations."

"Well, they ain't what they are down to Racquette, of course, but then
the fish down there ain't what they are up here, either." He visited
all with a sly and wry and knowing smile.

Clyde had never seen the type before. He was interested by all the
anomalies and contrarities of this lonesome world as contrasted with
cities he had known almost exclusively, as well as the decidedly
exotic and material life and equipment with which, at the Cranstons'
and elsewhere, he was then surrounded. The strange and comparatively
deserted nature of this region as contrasted with the brisk and
vigorous life of Lycurgus, less than a hundred miles to the south.

"The country up here kills me," commented Stuart Finchley at this
point. "It's so near the Chain and yet it's so different, scarcely any
one living up here at all, it seems."

"Well, except for the camps in summer and the fellows that come up
to hunt moose and deer in the fall, there ain't much of anybody or
anything around here after September first," commented the guide. "I've
been guidin' and trappin' for nigh onto seventeen years now around
here and 'cept for more and more people around some of the lakes below
here--the Chain principally in summer--I ain't see much change. You
need to know this country purty well if yer goin't strike out anywhere
away from the main roads, though o' course about five miles to the
west o' here is the railroad. Gun Lodge is the station. We bring 'em
by bus from there in the summer. And from the south end down there is
a sorta road leadin' down to Greys Lake and Three Mile Bay. You musta
come along a part of it, since it's the only road up into this country
as yet. They're talkin' of cuttin' one through to Long Lake sometime,
but so far it's mostly talk. But from most of these other lakes around
here, there's no road at all, not that an automobile could make. Just
trails and there's not even a decent camp on some o' 'em. You have
to bring your own outfit. Bud Ellis and me was over to Gun Lake last
summer--that's thirty miles west o' here and we had to walk every inch
of the way and carry our packs. But, oh, say, the fishin' and moose and
deer come right down to the shore in places to drink. See 'em as plain
as that stump across the lake."

And Clyde remembered that, along with the others, he had carried away
the impression that for solitude and charm--or at least mystery--this
region could scarcely be matched. And to think it was all so
comparatively near Lycurgus--not more than a hundred miles by road; not
more than seventy by rail, as he eventually came to know.

But now once more in Lycurgus and back in his room after just
explaining to Roberta, as he had, he once more encountered on his
writing desk, the identical paper containing the item concerning
the tragedy at Pass Lake. And in spite of himself, his eye once more
followed nervously and yet unwaveringly to the last word all the
suggestive and provocative details. The uncomplicated and apparently
easy way in which the lost couple had first arrived at the boathouse;
the commonplace and entirely unsuspicious way in which they had hired a
boat and set forth for a row; the manner in which they had disappeared
to the north end; and then the upturned boat, the floating oars and
hats near the shore. He stood reading in the still strong evening
light. Outside the windows were the dark boughs of the fir tree of
which he had thought the preceding day and which now suggested all
those firs and pines about the shores of Big Bittern.

But, good God! What was he thinking of anyhow? He, Clyde Griffiths!
The nephew of Samuel Griffiths! What was "getting into" him? Murder!
That's what it was. This terrible item--this devil's accident or
machination that was constantly putting it before him! A most horrible
crime, and one for which they electrocuted people if they were caught.
Besides, he could not murder anybody--not Roberta, anyhow. Oh, no!
Surely not after all that had been between them. And yet--this other
world!--Sondra--which he was certain to lose now unless he acted in
some way----

His hands shook, his eyelids twitched--then his hair at the roots
tingled and over his body ran chill nervous titillations in waves.
Murder! Or upsetting a boat at any rate in deep water, which of
course might happen anywhere, and by accident, as at Pass Lake. And
Roberta could not swim. He knew that. But she might save herself
at that--scream--cling to the boat--and then--if there were any to
hear--and she told afterwards! An icy perspiration now sprang to his
forehead; his lips trembled and suddenly his throat felt parched and
dry. To prevent a thing like that he would have to--to--but no--he
was not like that. He could not do a thing like that--hit any one--a
girl--Roberta--and when drowning or struggling. Oh, no, no--no such
thing as that! Impossible.

He took his straw hat and went out, almost before any one heard him
_think_, as he would have phrased it to himself, such horrible,
terrible thoughts. He could not and would not think them from now
on. He was no such person. And yet--and yet--these thoughts. The
solution--if he wanted one. The way to stay here--not leave--marry
Sondra--be rid of Roberta and all--all--for the price of a little
courage or daring. But no!

He walked and walked--away from Lycurgus--out on a road to the
southeast which passed through a poor and decidedly unfrequented rural
section, and so left him alone to think--or, as he felt, not to be
heard in his thinking.

Day was fading into dark. Lamps were beginning to glow in the cottages
here and there. Trees in groups in fields or along the road were
beginning to blur or smokily blend. And although it was warm--the air
lifeless and lethargic--he walked fast, thinking, and perspiring as he
did so, as though he were seeking to outwalk and outthink or divert
some inner self that preferred to be still and think.

That gloomy, lonely lake up there!

That island to the south!

Who would see?

Who could hear?

That station at Gun Lodge with a bus running to it at this season of
the year. (Ah, he remembered that, did he? The deuce!) A terrible
thing, to remember a thing like that in connection with such a thought
as this! But if he were going to think of such a thing as this at all,
he had better think well--he could tell himself that--or stop thinking
about it now--once and forever--forever. But Sondra! Roberta! If ever
he were caught--electrocuted! And yet the actual misery of his present
state. The difficulty! The danger of losing Sondra. And yet, murder--

He wiped his hot and wet face, and paused and gazed at a group of trees
across a field which somehow reminded him of the trees of ... well ...
he didn't like this road. It was getting too dark out here. He had
better turn and go back. But that road at the south and leading to
Three Mile Bay and Greys Lake--if one chose to go that way--to Sharon
and the Cranston Lodge--whither he would be going afterwards if he did
go that way. God! Big Bittern--the trees along there after dark would
be like that--blurred and gloomy. It would have to be toward evening,
of course. No one would think of trying to ... well ... in the morning,
when there was so much light. Only a fool would do that. But at night,
toward dusk, as it was now, or a little later. But, damn it, he would
not listen to such thoughts. Yet no one would be likely to see him or
Roberta either--would they--there? It would be so easy to go to a place
like Big Bittern--for an alleged wedding trip--would it not--over the
Fourth, say--or after the fourth or fifth, when there would be fewer
people. And to register as some one else--not himself--so that he could
never be traced that way. And then, again, it would be so easy to get
back to Sharon and the Cranstons' by midnight, or the morning of the
next day, maybe, and then, once there he could pretend also that he had
come north on that early morning train that arrived about ten o'clock.
And then....

Confound it--why should his mind keep dwelling on this idea? Was he
actually planning to do a thing like this? But he was not! He could
not be! He, Clyde Griffiths, could not be serious about a thing like
this. That was not possible. He could not be. Of course! It was all
too impossible, too wicked, to imagine that he, Clyde Griffiths, could
bring himself to execute a deed like that. And yet....

And forthwith an uncanny feeling of wretchedness and insufficiency for
so dark a crime insisted on thrusting itself forward. He decided to
retrace his steps toward Lycurgus, where at least he could be among
people.




                              CHAPTER XLV


There are moments when in connection with the sensitively imaginative
or morbidly anachronistic--the mentality assailed and the same not of
any great strength and the problem confronting it of sufficient force
and complexity--the reason not actually toppling from its throne,
still totters or is warped or shaken--the mind befuddled to the extent
that for the time being, at least, unreason or disorder and mistaken
or erroneous counsel would appear to hold against all else. In such
instances the will and the courage confronted by some great difficulty
which it can neither master nor endure, appears in some to recede in
precipitate flight, leaving only panic and temporary unreason in its
wake.

And in this instance, the mind of Clyde might well have been compared
to a small and routed army in full flight before a major one, yet
at various times in its precipitate departure, pausing for a moment
to meditate on some way of escaping complete destruction and in the
coincident panic of such a state, resorting to the weirdest and most
haphazard of schemes of escaping from an impending and yet wholly
unescapable fate. The strained and bedeviled look in his eyes at
moments--the manner in which, from moment to moment and hour to hour,
he went over and over his hitherto poorly balanced actions and thoughts
but with no smallest door of escape anywhere. And yet again at moments
the solution suggested by the item in _The Times-Union_ again thrusting
itself forward, psychogenetically, born of his own turbulent, eager and
disappointed seeking. And hence persisting.

Indeed, it was now as though from the depths of some lower or higher
world never before guessed or plumbed by him ... a region otherwhere
than in life or death and peopled by creatures otherwise than
himself ... there had now suddenly appeared, as the genii at the
accidental rubbing of Aladdin's lamp--as the efrit emerging as smoke
from the mystic jar in the net of the fisherman--the very substance of
some leering and diabolic wish or wisdom concealed in his own nature,
and that now abhorrent and yet compelling, leering and yet intriguing,
friendly and yet cruel, offered him a choice between an evil which
threatened to destroy him (and against his deepest opposition) and a
second evil which, however it might disgust or sear or terrify, still
provided for freedom and success and love.

Indeed the center or mentating section of his brain at this time might
well have been compared to a sealed and silent hall in which alone
and undisturbed, and that in spite of himself, he now sat thinking on
the mystic or evil and terrifying desires or advice of some darker or
primordial and unregenerate nature of his own, and without the power
to drive the same forth or himself to decamp, and yet also without the
courage to act upon anything.

For now the genii of his darkest and weakest side was speaking. And
it said: "And would you escape from the demands of Roberta that but
now and unto this hour have appeared unescapable to you? Behold! I
bring you a way. It is the way of the lake--Pass Lake. This item that
you have read--do you think it was placed in your hands for nothing?
Remember Big Bittern, the deep, blue-black water, the island to the
south, the lone road to Three Mile Bay? How suitable to your needs!
A rowboat or a canoe upset in such a lake and Roberta would pass
forever from your life. She cannot swim! The lake--the lake--that you
have seen--that I have shown you--is it not ideal for the purpose?
So removed and so little frequented and yet comparatively near--but
a hundred miles from here. And how easy for you and Roberta to go
there--not directly but indirectly--on this purely imaginative
marriage-trip that you have already agreed to. And all that you need
do now is to change your name--and hers--or let her keep her own and
you use yours. You have never permitted her to speak of you and this
relationship, and she never has. You have written her but formal notes.
And now if you should meet her somewhere as you have already agreed to,
and without any one seeing you, you might travel with her, as in the
past to Fonda, to Big Bittern--or some point near there."

"But there is no hotel at Big Bittern," at once corrected Clyde. "A
mere shack that entertains but few people and that not very well."

"All the better. The less people are likely to be there."

"But we might be seen on the train going up together. I would be
identified as having been with her."

"Were you seen at Fonda, Gloversville, Little Falls? Have you not
ridden in separate cars or seats before and could you not do so now?
Is it not presumably to be a secret marriage? Then why not a secret
honeymoon?"

"True enough--true enough."

"And once you have arranged for that and arrive at Big Bittern or some
lake like it--there are so many there--how easy to row out on such a
lake? No questions. No registry under your own name or hers. A boat
rented for an hour or half-day or day. You saw the island far to the
south on that lone lake. Is it not beautiful? It is well worth seeing.
Why should you not go there on such a pleasure trip before marriage?
Would she not be happy so to do--as weary and distressed as she is
now--an outing--a rest before the ordeal of the new life? Is not that
sensible--plausible? And neither of you will ever return presumably.
You will both be drowned, will you not? Who is to see? A guide or
two--the man who rents you the boat--the innkeeper once, as you go.
But how are they to know who you are? Or who she is? And you heard the
depth of the water."

"But I do not want to kill her. I do not want to kill her. I do not
want to injure her in any way. If she will but let me go and she go her
own way, I will be so glad and so happy never to see her more."

"But she will not let you go or go her way unless you accompany her.
And if you go yours, it will be without Sondra and all that she
represents, as well as all this pleasant life here--your standing with
your uncle, his friends, their cars, the dances, visits to the lodges
on the lakes. And what then? A small job! Small pay! Another such
period of wandering as followed that accident at Kansas City. Never
another chance like this anywhere. Do you prefer that?"

"But might there not be some accident here, destroying all my
dreams--my future--as there was in Kansas City?"

"An accident, to be sure--but not the same. In this instance the
plan is in your hands. You can arrange it all as you will. And how
easy! So many boats upsetting every summer--the occupants of them
drowning, because in most cases they cannot swim. And will it ever
be known whether the man who was with Roberta Alden on Big Bittern
could swim? And of all deaths, drowning is the easiest--no noise--no
outcry--perhaps the accidental blow of an oar--the side of a boat. And
then silence! Freedom--a body that no one may ever find. Or if found
and identified, will it not be easy, if you but trouble to plan, to
make it appear that you were elsewhere, visiting at one of the other
lakes before you decided to go to Twelfth Lake. What is wrong with it?
Where is the flaw?"

"But assuming that I should upset the boat and that she should not
drown, then what? Should cling to it, cry out, be saved and relate
afterward that.... But no, I cannot do that--will not do it I will not
hit her. That would be too terrible ... too vile."

"But a little blow--any little blow under such circumstances would be
sufficient to confuse and complete her undoing. Sad, yes, but she has
an opportunity to go her own way, has she not? And she will not, nor
let you go yours. Well, then, is this so terribly unfair? And do not
forget that afterwards there is Sondra--the beautiful--a home with her
in Lycurgus--wealth, a high position such as elsewhere you may never
obtain again--never--never. Love and happiness--the equal of any one
here--superior even to your cousin Gilbert."

The voice ceased temporarily, trailing off into shadow,--silence,
dreams.

And Clyde, contemplating all that had been said, was still unconvinced.
Darker fears or better impulses supplanted the counsel of the voice
in the great hall. But presently thinking of Sondra and all that
she represented, and then of Roberta, the dark personality would as
suddenly and swiftly return and with amplified suavity and subtlety.

"Ah, still thinking on the matter. And you have not found a way out and
you will not. I have truly pointed out to you and in all helpfulness
the only way--the only way--It is a long lake. And would it not be easy
in rowing about to eventually find some secluded spot--some invisible
nook near that south shore where the water is deep? And from there
how easy to walk through the woods to Three Mile Bay and Upper Greys
Lake? And from there to the Cranstons'? There is a boat from there,
as you know. Pah--how cowardly--how lacking in courage to win the
thing that above all things you desire--beauty--wealth--position--the
solution of your every material and spiritual desire. And with poverty,
commonplace, hard and poor work as the alternative to all this."

"But you must choose--choose! And then act. You must! You must! You
must!"

Thus the voice in parting, echoing from some remote part of the
enormous chamber.

And Clyde, listening at first with horror and in terror, later with
a detached and philosophic calm as one who, entirely apart from what
he may think or do, is still entitled to consider even the wildest
and most desperate proposals for his release, at last, because of his
own mental and material weakness before pleasures and dreams which he
could not bring himself to forego, psychically intrigued to the point
where he was beginning to think that it might be possible. Why not?
Was it not even as the voice said--a possible and plausible way--all
his desires and dreams to be made real by this one evil thing? Yet
in his case, because of flaws and weaknesses in his own unstable and
highly variable will, the problem was not to be solved by thinking
thus--then--nor for the next ten days for that matter.

He could not really act on such a matter for himself and would not.
It remained as usual for him to be forced either to act or to abandon
this most _wild_ and terrible thought. Yet during this time a series of
letters--seven from Roberta, five from Sondra--in which in somber tones
in so far as Roberta was concerned--in gay and colorful ones in those
which came from Sondra--was painted the now so sharply contrasting
phases of the black rebus which lay before him. To Roberta's pleadings,
argumentative and threatening as they were, Clyde did not trust himself
to reply, not even by telephone. For now he reasoned that to answer
would be only to lure Roberta to her doom--or to the attempted drastic
conclusion of his difficulties as outlined by the tragedy at Pass Lake.

At the same time, in several notes addressed to Sondra, he gave vent
to the most impassioned declarations of love--his darling--his wonder
girl--how eager he was to be at Twelfth Lake by the morning of the
Fourth, if he could, and so thrilled to see her there again. Yet,
alas, as he also wrote now, so uncertain was he, even now, as to how
he was to do, there were certain details in connection with his work
here that might delay him a day or two or three--he could not tell as
yet--but would write her by the second at the latest, when he would
know positively. Yet saying to himself as he wrote this, if she but
knew what those details were--if she but knew. Yet in penning this,
and without having as yet answered the last importunate letter from
Roberta, he was also saying to himself that this did not mean that
he was planning to go to Roberta at all, or that if he did, it did
not mean that he was going to attempt to kill her. Never once did he
honestly, or to put it more accurately, forthrightly and courageously
or coldly face the thought of committing so grim a crime. On the
contrary, the nearer he approached a final resolution or the need for
one in connection with all this, the more hideous and terrible seemed
the idea--hideous and difficult, and hence the more improbable it
seemed that he should ever commit it. It was true that from moment to
moment--arguing with himself as he constantly was--sweating mental
sweats and fleeing from moral and social terrors in connection with it
all, he was thinking from time to time that he might go to Big Bittern
in order to quiet her in connection with these present importunities
and threats and hence (once more evasion--tergiversation with himself)
give himself more time in which to conclude what his true course must
be.

The way of the Lake.

The way of the Lake.

But once there--whether it would then be advisable so to do--or
not--well who could tell. He might even yet be able to convert
Roberta to some other point of view. For, say what you would, she was
certainly acting very unfairly and captiously in all this. She was, as
he saw it in connection with his very vital dream of Sondra, making
a mountain--an immense terror--out of a state that when all was said
and done, was not so different from Esta's. And Esta had not compelled
any one to marry her. And how much better were the Aldens to his own
parents--poor farmers as compared to poor preachers. And why should he
be so concerned as to what they would think when Esta had not troubled
to think what her parents would feel?

In spite of all that Roberta had said about blame, was she so entirely
lacking in blame herself? To be sure, he had sought to entice or seduce
her, as you will, but even so, could she be held entirely blameless?
Could she not have refused, if she was so positive at the time that she
was so very moral? But she had not. And as to all this, all that he had
done, had he not done all he could to help her out of it? And he had so
little money, too. And was placed in such a difficult position. She was
just as much to blame as he was. And yet now she was so determined to
drive him this way. To insist on his marrying her, whereas if she would
only go her own way--as she could with his help--she might still save
both of them all this trouble.

But no, she would not, and he would not marry her and that was all
there was to it. She need not think that she could make him. No,
no, no! At times, when in such moods, he felt that he could do
anything--drown her easily enough, and she would only have herself to
blame.

Then again his more cowering sense of what society would think and do,
if it knew, what he himself would be compelled to think of himself
afterwards, fairly well satisfied him that as much as he desired to
stay, he was not the one to do anything at all and in consequence must
flee.

And so it was that Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday following Roberta's
letter received on Monday, had passed. And then, on Thursday night,
following a most torturesome mental day on his and Roberta's part for
that matter, this is what he received:

    Biltz, Wednesday, June 30th.

    DEAR CLYDE:

    This is to tell you that unless I hear from you either by telephone
    or letter before noon, Friday, I shall be in Lycurgus that same
    night, and the world will know how you have treated me. I cannot
    and will not wait and suffer one more hour. I regret to be
    compelled to take this step, but you have allowed all this time to
    go in silence really, and Saturday is the third, and without any
    plans of any kind. My whole life is ruined and so will yours be in
    a measure, but I cannot feel that I am entirely to blame. I have
    done all I possibly could to make this burden as easy for you as
    possible and I certainly regret all the misery it will cause my
    parents and friends and all whom you know and hold dear. But I will
    not wait and suffer one hour more.

                                                               ROBERTA.

And with this in his hands, he was finally all but numbed by the
fact that now decidedly he must act. She was actually coming! Unless
he could soothe or restrain her in some manner she would be here
to-morrow--the second. And yet the second, or the third, or any time
until after the Fourth, was no time to leave with her. The holiday
crowds would be too great. There would be too many people to see--to
encounter. There must be more secrecy. He must have at least a little
more time in which to get ready. He must think now quickly and then
act. Great God! Get ready. Could he not telephone her and say that
he had been sick or so worried on account of the necessary money or
something that he could not write--and that besides his uncle had
sent for him to come to Greenwood Lake over the Fourth. His uncle!
His uncle! No, that would not do. He had used his name too much. What
difference should it make to him or her now, whether he saw his uncle
once more or not? He was leaving once and for all, or so he had been
telling her, on her account, was he not? And so he had better say that
he was going to his uncle, in order to give a reason why he was going
away so that, possibly, he might be able to return in a year or so. She
might believe that. At any rate he must tell her something that would
quiet her until after the Fourth--make her stay up there until at least
he could perfect some plan--bring himself to the place where he could
do one thing or the other. One thing or the other.

Without pausing to plan anything more than just this at this time,
he hurried to the nearest telephone where he was least likely to
be overheard. And, getting her once more, began one of those long
and evasive and, in this instance, ingratiating explanations
which eventually, after he had insisted that he had actually been
sick--confined to his room with a fever and hence not able to get to
a telephone--and because, as he now said, he had finally decided that
it would be best if he were to make some explanation to his uncle, so
that he might return some time in the future, if necessary--he, by
using the most pleading, if not actually affectionate, tones and asking
her to consider what a state he had been in, too, was able not only to
make her believe that there was some excuse for his delay and silence,
but also to introduce the plan that he now had in mind; which was if
only she could wait until the sixth, then assuredly, without fail as
to any particular, he would meet her at any place she would choose to
come--Homer, Fonda, Lycurgus, Little Falls--only since they were trying
to keep everything so secret, he would suggest that she come to Fonda
on the morning of the sixth in order to make the noon train for Utica.
There they could spend the night since they could not very well discuss
and decide on their plans over the telephone, now, and then they could
act upon whatever they had decided. Besides he could tell her better
then just how he thought they ought to do. He had an idea--a little
trip maybe, somewhere before they got married or after, just as she
wished, but--something nice anyhow--(his voice grew husky and his knees
and hands shook slightly as he said this, only Roberta could not detect
the sudden perturbation within him). But she must not ask him now. He
could not tell her over the phone. But as sure as anything, at noon on
the sixth, he would be on the station platform at Fonda. All she had
to do after seeing him was to buy her ticket to Utica and get in one
coach, and he would buy his separately and get in another--the one just
ahead or behind hers. On the way down, if she didn't see him at the
station beforehand, he would pass through her car for a drink so that
she could see that he was there--no more than that--but she mustn't
speak to him. Then once in Utica, she should check her bag and he would
follow her out to the nearest quiet corner. After that he would go and
get her bag, and then they could go to some little hotel and he would
take care of all the rest.

But she must do this. Would she have that much faith in him? If so, he
would call her up on the third--the very next day--and on the morning
of the sixth--sure, so that both he and she would know that everything
was all right--that she was starting and that he would be there. What
was that? Her trunk? The little one? Sure. If she needed it, certainly
bring it. Only, if he were she, he would not trouble to try to bring
too much now, because once she was settled somewhere, it would be easy
enough to send for anything else that she really needed.

As Clyde stood at the telephone in a small outlying drug store and
talked--the lonely proprietor buried in a silly romance among his pots
and phials at the back--it seemed as though the Giant Efrit that had
previously materialized in the silent halls of his brain, was once more
here at his elbow--that he himself, cold and numb and fearsome, was
being talked through--not actually talking himself.

Go to the lake which you visited with Sondra!

Get travel folders of the region there from either the Lycurgus House
here or the depot.

Go to the south end of it and from there walk south, afterwards.

Pick a boat that will upset easily--one with a round bottom, such as
those you have seen here at Crum Lake and up there.

Buy a new and different hat and leave that on the water--one that
cannot be traced to you. You might even tear the lining out of it so
that it cannot be traced.

Pack all of your things in your trunk here, but leave it, so that
swiftly, in the event that anything goes wrong, you can return here and
get it and depart.

And take only such things with you as will make it seem as though you
were going for an outing to Twelfth Lake--not away, so that should you
be sought at Twelfth Lake, it will look as though you had gone only
there, not elsewhere.

Tell her that you intend to marry her, but _after_ you return from this
outing, not before.

And if necessary strike a light blow, so as to stun her--no more--so
that falling in the water, she will drown the more easily.

Do not fear!

Do not be weak!

Walk through the woods by night, not by day--so that when seen again
you will be in Three Mile Bay or Sharon--and can say that you came from
Racquette or Long Lake south, or from Lycurgus north.

Use a false name and alter your handwriting as much as possible.

Assume that you will be successful.

And whisper, whisper--let your language be soft, your tone tender,
loving, even. It must be, if you are to win her to your will now.

So the Efrit of his own darker self.




                             CHAPTER XLVI


And then at noon on Tuesday, July sixth, the station platform of the
railroad running from Fonda to Utica, with Roberta stepping down from
the train which came south from Biltz to await Clyde, for the train
that was to take them to Utica was not due for another half hour. And
fifteen minutes later Clyde himself coming from a side street and
approaching the station from the south, from which position Roberta
could not see him but from where, after turning the west corner of the
depot and stationing himself behind a pile of crates, he could see her.
How thin and pale indeed! By contrast with Sondra, how illy-dressed in
the blue traveling suit and small brown hat with which she had equipped
herself for this occasion--the promise of a restricted and difficult
life as contrasted with that offered by Sondra. And she was thinking
of compelling him to give up Sondra in order to marry her, and from
which union he might never be able to extricate himself until such
time as would make Sondra and all she represented a mere recollection.
The difference between the attitudes of these two girls--Sondra with
everything offering all--asking nothing of him; Roberta, with nothing,
asking all.

A feeling of dark and bitter resentment swept over him and he could
not help but feel sympathetic toward that unknown man at Pass Lake
and secretly wish that he had been successful. Perhaps he, too, had
been confronted by a situation just like this. And perhaps he had done
right, too, after all, and that was why it had not been found out. His
nerves twitched. His eyes were somber, resentful and yet nervous. Could
it not happen again successfully in this case?

But here he was now upon the same platform with her as the result of
her persistent and illogical demands, and he must be thinking how, and
boldly, he must carry out the plans which, for four days, or ever since
he had telephoned her, and in a dimmer way for the ten preceding those,
he had been planning. This settled course must not be interfered with
now. He must act! He must not let fear influence him to anything less
than he had now planned.

And so it was that he now stepped forth in order that she might see
him, at the same time giving her a wise and seemingly friendly and
informative look as if to say, "You see I am here." But behind the
look! If only she could have pierced beneath the surface and sensed
that dark and tortured mood, how speedily she would have fled. But now
seeing him actually present, a heavy shadow that was lurking in her
eyes lifted, the somewhat down-turned corners of her mouth reversed
themselves, and without appearing to recognize him, she nevertheless
brightened and at once proceeded to the window to purchase her ticket
to Utica, as he had instructed her to do.

And she was now thinking that at last, at last he had come. And he
was going to take her away. And hence a kind of gratefulness for this
welling up in her. For they were to be together for seven or eight
months at the least. And while it might take tact and patience to
adjust things, still it might and probably could be done. From now
on she must be the very soul of caution--not do or say anything that
would irritate him in any way, since naturally he would not be in the
best mood because of this. But he must have changed some--perhaps he
was seeing her in a more kindly light--sympathizing with her a little,
since he now appeared at last to have most gracefully and genially
succumbed to the unavoidable. And at the same time noting his light
gray suit, his new straw hat, his brightly polished shoes and the dark
tan suitcase and (strange, equivocal, frivolous erraticism of his in
this instance) the tripod of a recently purchased camera together with
his tennis racquet in its canvas case strapped to the side--more than
anything to conceal the initials C. G.--she was seized with much of her
old-time mood and desire in regard to his looks and temperament. He was
still, and despite his present indifference to her, her Clyde.

Having seen her secure her ticket, he now went to get his own, and
then, with another knowing look in her direction, which said that
everything was now all right, he returned to the eastern end of the
platform, while she returned to her position at the forward end.

    (_Why was that old man in that old brown winter suit and hat and
    carrying that bird cage in a brown paper looking at him so? Could
    he sense anything? Did he know him? Had he ever worked in Lycurgus
    or seen him before?_)

He was going to buy a second straw hat in Utica to-day--he must
remember that--a straw hat with a Utica label, which he would wear
instead of his present one. Then, when she was not looking, he would
put the old one in his bag with his other things. That was why he would
have to leave her for a little while after they reached Utica--at the
depot or library or somewhere--perhaps as was his first plan, take her
to some small hotel somewhere and register as Mr. and Mrs. Carl Graham
or Clifford Golden or Gehring (there was a girl in the factory by that
name) so if they were ever traced in any way, it would be assumed that
she had gone away with some man of that name.

    (_That whistle of a train afar off. It must be coming now. His
    watch said twelve-twenty-seven._)

And again he must decide what his manner toward her in Utica must
be--whether very cordial or the opposite. For over the telephone, of
course, he had talked very soft and genial-like because he had to.
Perhaps it would be best to keep that up, otherwise she might become
angry or suspicious or stubborn and that would make it hard.

    (_Would that train never get here?_)

At the same time it was going to be very hard on him to be so very
pleasant when, after all, she was driving him as she was--expecting him
to do all that she was asking him to do and yet be nice to her. Damn!
And yet if he weren't?--Supposing she should sense something of his
thoughts in connection with this--really refuse to go through with it
this way and spoil his plans.

    (_If only his knees and hands wouldn't tremble so at times._)

But no, how was she to be able to detect anything of that kind, when he
himself had not quite made up his mind as to whether he would be able
to go through with it or not? He only knew he was not going away with
her, and that was all there was to that. He might not upset the boat,
as he had decided on the day before, but just the same he was not going
away with her.

But here now was the train. And there was Roberta lifting her bag. Was
it too heavy for her in her present state? It probably was. Well, too
bad. It was very hot to-day, too. At any rate he would help her with
it later, when they were where no one could see them. She was looking
toward him to be sure he was getting on--so like her these days, in
her suspicious, doubtful mood in regard to him. But here was a seat
in the rear of the car on the shady side, too. That was not so bad. He
would settle himself comfortably and look out. For just outside Fonda,
a mile or two beyond, was that same Mohawk that ran through Lycurgus
and past the factory, and along the banks of which the year before, he
and Roberta had walked about this time. But the memory of that being
far from pleasant now, he turned his eyes to a paper he had bought,
and behind which he could shield himself as much as possible, while he
once more began to observe the details of the more inward scene which
now so much more concerned him--the nature of the lake country around
Big Bittern, which ever since that final important conversation with
Roberta over the telephone, had been interesting him more than any
other geography of the world.

For on Friday, after the conversation, he had stopped in at the
Lycurgus House and secured three different folders relating to hotels,
lodges, inns and other camps in the more remote region beyond Big
Bittern and Long Lake. If only there were some way to get to one
of those completely deserted lakes described by that guide at Big
Bittern--only, perhaps, there might not be any row-boats on any of
these lakes at all! And again on Saturday, had he not secured four more
circulars from the rack at the depot (they were in his pocket now)?
Had they not proved how many small lakes and inns there were along
this same railroad, which ran north to Big Bittern, to which he and
Roberta might resort for a day or two if she would--a night, anyhow,
before going to Big Bittern and Grass Lake--had he not noted that in
particular--a beautiful lake it had said--near the station, and with
at least three attractive lodges or country home inns where two could
stay for as low as twenty dollars a week. That meant that two could
stay for one night surely for as little as five dollars. It must be so
surely--and so he was going to say to her, as he had already planned
these several days, that she needed a little rest before going away
to a strange place. That it would not cost very much--about fifteen
dollars for fares and all, so the circulars said--if they went to Grass
Lake for a night--this same night after reaching Utica--or on the
morrow, anyhow. And he would have to picture it all to her as a sort of
honeymoon journey--a little pleasant outing--before getting married.
And it would not do to succumb to any plan of hers to get married
before they did this--that would never do.

    (_Those five birds winging toward that patch of trees over
    there--below that hill._)

It certainly would not do to go direct to Big Bittern from Utica for a
boat ride--just one day--seventy miles. That would not sound right to
her, or to any one. It would make her suspicious, maybe. It might be
better, since he would have to get away from her to buy a hat in Utica,
to spend this first night there at some inexpensive, inconspicuous
hotel, and once there, suggest going up to Grass Lake. And from there
they could go to Big Bittern in the morning. He could say that Big
Bittern was nicer--or that they would go down to Three Mile Bay--a
hamlet really as he knew--where they could be married, but en route
stop at Big Bittern as a sort of lark. He would say that he wanted
to show her the lake--take some pictures of her and himself. He had
brought his camera for that and for other pictures of Sondra later.

The blackness of this plot of his!

    (_Those nine black and white cows on that green hillside._)

But again, strapping that tripod along with his tennis racquet to the
side of his suitcase, might not that cause people to imagine that they
were passing tourists from some distant point, maybe, and if they both
disappeared, well, then, they were not people from anywhere around
here, were they? Didn't the guide say that the water in the lake was
all of seventy-five feet deep---like that water at Pass Lake? And as
for Roberta's grip--oh, yes, what about that? He hadn't even thought
about that as yet, really.

    (_Those three automobiles out there running almost as fast as this
    train._)

Well, in coming down from Grass Lake after one night there (he could
say that he was going to marry her at Three Mile Bay at the north end
of Greys Lake, where a minister lived whom he had met), he would induce
her to leave her bag at that Gun Lodge station, where they took the
bus over to Big Bittern, while he took his with him. He could just say
to some one--the boatman, maybe, or the driver, that he was taking his
camera in his bag, and ask where the best views were. Or maybe a lunch.
Was that not a better idea--to take a lunch and so deceive Roberta,
too, perhaps? And that would tend to mislead the driver, also, would it
not? People did carry cameras in bags, when they went out on lakes, at
times. At any rate it was most necessary for him to carry his bag in
this instance. Else why the plan to go south to that island and from
thence through the woods?

    (_Oh, the grimness and the terror of this plan! Could he really
    execute it?_)

But that strange cry of that bird at Big Bittern. He had not liked
that, or seeing that guide up there who might remember him now. He had
not talked to him at all--had not even gotten out of the car, but had
only looked out at him through the window; and in so far as he could
recall the guide had not even once looked at him--had merely talked
to Grant Cranston and Harley Baggott, who had gotten out and had done
all the talking. But supposing this guide should be there and remember
him? But how could that be when he really had not seen him? This guide
would probably not remember him at all--might not even be there. But
why should his hands and face be damp all the time now--wet almost, and
cold--his knees shaky?

    (_This train was following the exact curve of this stream--and last
    summer he and Roberta. But no--_)

As soon as they reached Utica now this was the way he would do--and
must keep it well in mind and not get rattled in any way. He must
not--he must not. He must let her walk up the street before him, say
a hundred feet or so between them, so that no one would think he was
following her, of course. And then when they were quite alone somewhere
he would catch up with her and explain all about this--be very nice
as though he cared for her as much as ever now--he would have to--if
he were to get her to do as he wanted. And then--and then, oh, yes,
have her wait while he went for that extra straw hat that he was going
to--well, leave on the water, maybe. And the oars, too, of course. And
her hat--and--well--

    (_The long, sad sounding whistle of this train. Damn. He was
    getting nervous already._)

But before going to the hotel, he must go back to the depot and put
his new hat in the bag, or better yet, carry it while he looked for
the sort of hotel he wanted, and then, before going to Roberta, take
the hat and put it in his bag. Then he would go and find her and have
her come to the entrance of the hotel he had found and wait for him,
while he got the bags. And, of course, if there was no one around or
very few, they would enter together, only she could wait in the ladies'
parlor somewhere, while he went and registered as Charles Golden,
maybe, this time. And then, well, in the morning, if she agreed, or
to-night, for that matter, if there were any trains--he would have to
find out about that--they could go up to Grass Lake in separate cars
until they were past Twelfth Lake and Sharon, at any rate.

    (_The beautiful Cranston Lodge there and Sondra._)

And then--and then--

    (_That big red barn and that small white house near it. And that
    windmill. So like those houses and barns that he had seen out there
    in Illinois and Missouri. And Chicago, too._)

And at the same time Roberta in her car forward thinking that Clyde had
not appeared so very unfriendly to her. To be sure, it was hard on him,
making him leave Lycurgus in this way, and when he might be enjoying
himself as he wished to. But on the other hand, here was she--and there
was no other way for her to be. She must be very genial and yet not put
herself forward too much or in his way. And yet she must not be too
receding or weak, either, for, after all, Clyde was the one who had
placed her in this position. And it was only fair, and little enough
for him to do. She would have a baby to look after in the future, and
all that trouble to go through with from now on. And later, she would
have to explain to her parents this whole mysterious proceeding, which
covered her present disappearance and marriage, if Clyde really did
marry her now. But she must insist upon that--and soon--in Utica,
perhaps--certainly at the very next place they went to--and get a copy
of her marriage certificate, too, and keep it for her own as well as
the baby's sake. He could get a divorce as he pleased after that. She
would still be Mrs. Griffiths. And Clyde's baby and hers would be a
Griffiths, too. That was something.

    (_How beautiful the little river was. It reminded her of the Mohawk
    and the walks she and he had taken last summer when they first met.
    Oh, last summer! And now this!_)

And they would settle somewhere--in one or two rooms, no doubt. Where,
she wondered--in what town or city? How far away from Lycurgus or
Biltz--the farther from Biltz the better, although she would like to
see her mother and father again, and soon--as soon as she safely could.
But what matter, as long as they were going away together and she was
to be married?

Had he noticed her blue suit and little brown hat? And had he thought
she looked at all attractive compared to those rich girls with whom he
was always running? She must be very tactful--not irritate him in any
way. But---oh, the happy life they could have if only--if only he cared
for her a little--just a little....

And then Utica, and on a quiet street Clyde catching up with Roberta,
his expression a mixture of innocent geniality and goodwill, tempered
by worry and opposition, which was really a mask for the fear of the
deed that he himself was contemplating--his power to execute it--the
consequences in case he failed.




                             CHAPTER XLVII


And then, as planned that night between them--a trip to Grass Lake
the next morning in separate cars, but which, upon their arrival and
to his surprise, proved to be so much more briskly tenanted than he
anticipated. He was very much disturbed and frightened by the evidence
of so much active life up here. For he had fancied this, as well as
Big Bittern, would be all but deserted. Yet here now, as both could
see, it was the summer seat and gathering place of some small religious
organization or group--the Winebrennarians of Pennsylvania--as it
proved, with a tabernacle and numerous cottages across the lake from
the station. And Roberta at once exclaiming:

"Now, there, isn't that cute? Why couldn't we be married over there by
the minister of that church?"

And Clyde, puzzled and shaken by this sudden and highly unsatisfactory
development, at once announced: "Why, sure--I'll go over after a bit
and see," yet his mind busy with schemes for circumventing her. He
would take her out in a boat after registering and getting settled and
remain too long. Or should a peculiarly remote and unobserved spot be
found ... but no, there were too many people here. The lake was not
large enough, and probably not very deep. It was black or dark like
tar, and sentineled to the east and north by tall, dark pines--the
serried spears of armed and watchful giants, as they now seemed to
him--ogres almost--so gloomy, suspicious and fantastically erratic
was his own mood in regard to all this. But still there were too many
people--as many as ten on the lake.

The weirdness of it.

The difficulty.

But whisper:--one could not walk from here through any woods to Three
Mile Bay. Oh, no. That was all of thirty miles to the south now. And
besides this lake was less lonely--probably continually observed
by members of this religious group. Oh, no--he must say--he must
say--but what--could he say? That he had inquired, and that no license
could be procured here? Or that the minister was away, or that he
required certain identifications which he did not have--or--or, well,
well--anything that would serve to still Roberta until such hour
tomorrow, as the train south from here left for Big Bittern and Sharon,
where, of course, they would surely be married.

Why should she be so insistent? And why, anyhow, and except for her
crass determination to force him in this way, should he be compelled to
track here and there with her--every hour--every minute of which was
torture--an unending mental crucifixion really, when, if he were but
rid of her! Oh, Sondra, Sondra, if but now from your high estate, you
might bend down and aid me. No more lies! No more suffering! No more
misery of any kind!

But instead, more lies. A long and aimless and pestilential search for
water-lilies, which because of his own restless mood, bored Roberta
as much as it did him. For why, she was now thinking to herself as
they rowed about, this indifference to this marriage possibility,
which could have been arranged before now and given this outing the
dream quality it would and should have had, if only--if only he had
arranged for everything in Utica, even as she had wanted. But this
waiting--evasion--and so like Clyde, his vacillating, indefinite,
uncertain mood, always. She was beginning to wonder now as to his
intentions again--whether really and truly he did intend to marry her
as he had promised. Tomorrow, or the next day at most, would show. So
why worry now?

And then the next day at noon, Gun Lodge and Big Bittern itself and
Clyde climbing down from the train at Gun Lodge and escorting Roberta
to the waiting bus, the while he assured her that since they were
coming back this way, it would be best if she were to leave her bag
here, while he, because of his camera as well as the lunch done up at
Grass Lake and crowded into his suitcase, would take his own with him,
because they would lunch on the lake. But on reaching the bus, he was
dismayed by the fact that the driver was the same guide whom he had
heard talk at Big Bittern. What if it should prove now that this guide
had seen and remembered him! Would he not at least recall the handsome
Finchley car--Bertine and Stuart on the front seat--himself and Sondra
at the back--Grant and that Harley Baggott talking to him outside?

At once that cold perspiration that had marked his more nervous and
terrified moods for weeks past, now burst forth on his face and hands.
Of what had he been thinking, anyhow? How planning? In God's name, how
expect to carry a thing like this through, if he were going to think so
poorly? It was like his failing to wear his cap from Lycurgus to Utica,
or at least getting it out of his bag before he tried to buy that
straw hat; it was like not buying the straw hat before he went to Utica
at all.

Yet the guide did not remember him, thank God! On the contrary he
inquired rather curiously, and as of a total stranger: "Goin' over to
the lodge at Big bittern? First time up here?" And Clyde, enormously
relieved and yet really tremulous, replied: "Yes," and then in his
nervous excitement asked: "Many people over there to-day?" a question
which the moment he had propounded it, seemed almost insane. Why,
why, of all questions, should he ask that? Oh, God, would his silly,
self-destructive mistakes never cease?

So troubled was he indeed, now, that he scarcely heard the guide's
reply, or, if at all, as a voice speaking from a long way off. "Not so
many. About seven or eight, I guess. We did have about thirty over the
Fourth, but the most o' them went down yesterday."

The stillness of these pines lining this damp yellow road along which
they were traveling; the cool and the silence; the dark shadows and
purple and gray depths and nooks in them, even at high noon. If one
were slipping away at night or by day, who would encounter one here?
A blue-jay far in the depths somewhere uttered its metallic shriek;
a field sparrow, tremulous upon some distant twig, filled the silver
shadows with its perfect song. And Roberta, as this heavy, covered bus
crossed rill and thin stream, and then rough wooden bridges here and
there, commented on the clarity and sparkle of the water: "Isn't that
wonderful in there? Do you hear the tinkling of that water, Clyde? Oh,
the freshness of this air!"

And yet she was going to die so soon!

God!

But supposing now, at Big Bittern--the lodge and boathouse there--there
were many people. Or that the lake, peradventure, was literally dotted
with those that were there--all fishermen and all fishing here and
there, each one separate and alone--no privacy or a deserted spot
anywhere. And how strange he had not thought of that. This lake was
probably not nearly as deserted as he had imagined, or would not be
to-day, any more than Grass Lake had proved. And then what?

Well, flight then--flight--and let it go at that. This strain was too
much--hell--he would die, thinking thoughts like these. How could
he have dreamed to better his fortunes by any so wild and brutal
a scheme as this anyhow--to kill and then run away---or rather to
kill and pretend that he and she had drowned--while he--the real
murderer--slipped away to life and happiness. What a horrible plan!
And yet how else? How? Had he not come all this way to do this? And was
he going to turn back now?

And all this time Roberta at his side was imagining that she was not
going to anything but marriage--tomorrow morning sure; and now only
to the passing pleasure of seeing this beautiful lake of which he had
been talking--talking, as though it were something more important and
delectable than any that had as yet been in her or his life for that
matter.

But now the guide was speaking again, and to him: "You're not mindin'
to stay over, I suppose. I see you left the young lady's bag over
there." He nodded in the direction of Gun Lodge.

"No, we're going on down tonight--on that 8:10. You take people over to
that?"

"Oh, sure."

"They said you did--at Grass Lake."

But now why should he have added that reference to Grass Lake, for that
showed that he and Roberta had been there before coming here. But this
fool with his reference to "the young lady's bag!" And leaving it at
Gun Lodge. The Devil! Why shouldn't he mind his own business? Or why
should he have decided that he and Roberta were not married? Or had he
so decided? At any rate, why such a question when they were carrying
two bags and he had brought one? Strange! The effrontery! How should he
know or guess or what? But what harm could it do--married or unmarried?
If she were not found--"married or unmarried" would make no difference,
would it? And if she were, and it was discovered that she was not
married, would that not prove that she was off with some one else? Of
course! So why worry over that now?

And Roberta asking: "Are there any hotels or boarding houses on the
lake besides this one we're going to?"

"Not a one, miss, outside o' the inn that we're goin' to. There was
a crowd of young fellers and girls campin' over on the east shore,
yisterday, I believe, about a mile from the inn--but whether they're
there now or not, I dunno. Ain't seen none of 'em to-day."

A crowd of young fellows and girls! For God's sake! And might not they
now be out on the water--all of them--rowing--or sailing--or what? And
he here with her! Maybe some of them from Twelfth Lake! Just as he
and Sondra and Harriet and Stuart and Bertine had come up two weeks
before--some of them friends of the Cranstons, Harriets, Finchleys or
others who had come up here to play and who would remember him, of
course. And again, then, there must be a road to the east of this lake.
And all this knowledge and their presence there now might make this
trip of his useless. Such silly plotting! Such pointless planning as
this--when at least he might have taken more time--chosen a lake still
farther away and should have--only so tortured had he been for these
last many days, that he could scarcely think how to think. Well, all
he could do now was to go and see. If there were many he must think
of some way to row to some real lonely spot or may turn and return to
Grass Lake--or where? Oh, what could or would he do--if there were many
over here?

But just then a long aisle of green trees giving out at the far end
as he now recalled upon a square of lawn, and the lake itself, the
little inn with its pillared verandah, facing the dark blue waters of
Big Bittern. And that low, small red-roofed boathouse to the right
on the water that he had seen before when he was here. And Roberta
exclaiming on sight, "Oh, it is pretty, isn't it--just beautiful." And
Clyde surveying that dark, low island in the distance, to the south,
and seeing but few people about--none on the lake itself--exclaiming
nervously, "Yes, it is, you bet." But feeling half choked as he said it.

And now the host of the inn himself appearing and approaching--a
medium-sized, red-faced, broad-shouldered man who was saying most
intriguingly, "Staying over for a few days?"

But Clyde, irritated by this new development and after paying the guide
a dollar, replying crustily and irritably, "No, no--just came over for
the afternoon. We're going on down to-night."

"You'll be staying over for dinner then, I suppose? The train doesn't
leave till eight fifteen."

"Oh, yes--that's so. Sure. Yes, well, in that case, we will." ... For,
of course, Roberta on her honeymoon--the day before her wedding and
on a trip like this, would be expecting her dinner. Damn this stocky,
red-faced fool, anyway.

"Well, then, I'll just take your bag and you can register. Your wife'll
probably be wanting to freshen up a bit anyway."

He led the way, bag in hand, although Clyde's greatest desire was to
snatch it from him. For he had not expected to register here--nor leave
his bag either. And would not. He would recapture it and hire a boat.
But on top of that, being compelled "for the register's sake," as
Boniface phrased it, to sign Clifford Golden and wife--before he could
take his bag again.

And then to add to the nervousness and confusion engendered by all
this, thoughts as to what additional developments or persons, even,
he might encounter before leaving on his climacteric errand--Roberta
announcing that because of the heat and the fact that they were coming
back to dinner, she would leave her hat and coat--a hat in which he had
already seen the label of Braunstein in Lycurgus--and which at the time
caused him to meditate as to the wisdom of leaving or extracting it.
But he had decided that perhaps afterwards--afterwards--if he should
really do this--it might not make any difference whether it was there
or not. Was she not likely to be identified anyhow, if found, and if
not found, who was to know who she was?

In a confused and turbulent state mentally, scarcely realizing the
clarity or import of any particular thought or movement or act now, he
took up his bag and led the way to the boathouse platform. And then,
after dropping the bag into the boat, asking of the boathouse keeper if
he knew where the best views were, that he wanted to photograph them.
And this done--the meaningless explanation over, assisting Roberta
(an almost nebulous figure, she now seemed, stepping down into an
insubstantial rowboat upon a purely ideational lake), he now stepped in
after her, seating himself in the center and taking the oars.

The quiet, glassy, iridescent surface of this lake that now to both
seemed, not so much like water as oil--like molten glass that, of
enormous bulk and weight, resting upon the substantial earth so very
far below. And the lightness and freshness and intoxication of the
gentle air blowing here and there, yet scarcely rippling the surface of
the lake. And the softness and furry thickness of the tall pines about
the shore. Everywhere pines--tall and spearlike. And above them the
humped backs of the dark and distant Adirondacks beyond. Not a rower
to be seen. Not a house or cabin. He sought to distinguish the camp of
which the guide had spoken. He could not. He sought to distinguish the
voices of those who might be there--or any voices. Yet, except for the
lock-lock of his own oars as he rowed and the voice of the boathouse
keeper and the guide in converse two hundred, three hundred, five
hundred, a thousand feet behind, there was no sound.

"Isn't it still and peaceful?" It was Roberta talking. "It seems to be
so restful here. I think it's beautiful, truly, so much more beautiful
than that other lake. These trees are so tall, aren't they? And those
mountains. I was thinking all the way over how cool and silent that
road was, even if it was a little rough."

"Did you talk to any one in the inn there just now?"

"Why, no; what makes you ask?"

"Oh, I thought you might have run into some one. There don't seem to be
very many people up here to-day, though, does there?"

"No, I don't see any one on the lake. I saw two men in that billiard
room at the back there, and there was a girl in the ladies' room, that
was all. Isn't this water cold?" She had put her hand over the side and
was trailing it in the blue-black ripples made by his oars.

"Is it? I haven't felt it yet."

He paused in his rowing and put out his hand, then resumed. He would
not row directly to that island to the south. It was--too far--too
early. She might think it odd. Better a little delay. A little time in
which to think--a little while in which to reconnoiter. Roberta would
be wanting to eat her lunch (her lunch!) and there was a charming
looking point of land there to the west about a mile further on. They
could go there and eat first--or she could--for he would not be eating
to-day. And then--and then----

She was looking at the very same point of land that he was--a curved
horn of land that bent to the south and yet reached quite far out into
the water and combed with tall pines. And now she added:

"Have you any spot in mind, dear, where we could stop and eat? I'm
getting a little hungry, aren't you?" (If she would only not call him
_dear_, here and now!)

The little inn and the boathouse to the north were growing momentarily
smaller,--looking now, like that other boathouse and pavilion on Crum
Lake the day he had first rowed there, and when he had been wishing
that he might come to such a lake as this in the Adirondacks, dreaming
of such a lake--and wishing to meet such a girl as Roberta--then----
And overhead was one of those identical woolly clouds that had sailed
above him at Crum Lake on that fateful day.

The horror of this effort!

They might look for water-lilies here to-day to kill time a little,
before--to kill time ... to kill, (God)--he must quit thinking of that,
if he were going to do it at all. He needn't be thinking of it now, at
any rate.

At the point of land favored by Roberta, into a minute protected bay
with a small, curved, honey-colored beach, and safe from all prying
eyes north or east. And then he and she stepping out normally enough.
And Roberta, after Clyde had extracted the lunch most cautiously from
his bag, spreading it on a newspaper on the shore, while he walked
here and there, making strained and yet admiring comments on the
beauty of the scene--the pines and the curve of this small bay, yet
thinking--thinking, thinking of the island farther on and the bay below
that again somewhere, where somehow, and in the face of a weakening
courage for it, he must still execute this grim and terrible business
before him--not allow this carefully planned opportunity to go for
nothing--if--if--he were to not really run away and leave all that he
most desired to keep.

And yet the horror of this business and the danger, now that it was so
close at hand--the danger of making a mistake of some kind--if nothing
more, of not upsetting the boat right--of not being able to--to--oh,
God! And subsequently, maybe, to be proved to be what he would
be--then--a murderer. Arrested! Tried. (He could not, he would not, go
through with it. No, no, no!)

And yet Roberta, sitting here with him now on the sand, feeling quite
at peace with all the world as he could see. And she was beginning
to hum a little, and then to make advisory and practical references
to the nature of their coming adventure together--their material
and financial state from now on--how and where they would go from
here--Syracuse, most likely--since Clyde seemed to have no objection
to that--and what, once there, they would do. For Roberta had heard
from her brother-in-law, Fred Gabel, of a new collar and shirt factory
that was just starting up in Syracuse. Might it not be possible for
Clyde, for the time being at least, to get himself a position with that
firm at once? And then later, when her own worst trouble was over,
might not she connect herself with the same company, or some other?
And temporarily, since they had so little money, could they not take
a small room together somewhere in some family home, or if he did not
like that, since they were by no means so close temperamentally as they
once had been, then two small adjoining rooms, maybe. She could still
feel his unrelenting opposition under all this present show of courtesy
and consideration.

And he thinking, Oh, well, what difference such talk now? And whether
he agreed or whether he did not. What difference since he was not
going--or she either--that way. Great God! But here he was talking as
though to-morrow she would be here still. And she would not be.

If only his knees would not tremble so; his hands and face and body
continue so damp.

And after that, farther on down the west shore of this small lake
in this little boat, to that island, with Clyde looking nervously
and wearily here and there to see that there was no one--no one--not
anywhere in sight on land or water--no one. It was so still and
deserted here, thank God. Here--or anywhere near here might do,
really,--if only he had the courage so to do now, which he had
not,--yet. Roberta trailing her hand in the water, asking him if he
thought they might find some water-lilies or wild flowers somewhere
on shore. Water-lilies! Wild flowers! And he convincing himself as he
went that there were no roads, cabins, tents, paths, anything in the
form of a habitation among these tall, close, ranking pines--no trace
of any little boat on the widespread surface of this beautiful lake on
this beautiful day. Yet might there not be some lone, solitary hunter
and trapper or guide or fisherman in these woods or along these banks?
Might there not be? And supposing there were one here now somewhere?
And watching!

Fate!

Destruction!

Death! Yet no sound and no smoke. Only--only--these tall, dark, green
pines--spear-shaped and still, with here and there a dead one--ashen
pale in the hard afternoon sun, its gaunt, sapless arms almost
menacingly outstretched.

Death!

And the sharp metallic cry of a blue-jay speeding in the depths of
these woods. Or the lone and ghostly tap-tap-tap of some solitary
woodpecker, with now and then the red line of a flying tanager, the
yellow and black of a yellow-shouldered blackbird.

"Oh, the sun shines bright in my old Kentucky home."

It was Roberta singing cheerfully, one hand in the deep blue water.

And then a little later--"I'll be there Sunday if you will," one of the
popular dance pieces of the day.

And then at last, after fully an hour of rowing, brooding, singing,
stopping to look at some charming point of land, reconnoitering some
receding inlet which promised water-lilies, and with Roberta already
saying that they must watch the time and not stay out too long,--the
bay, south of the island itself--a beautiful and yet most funereally
pine-encircled and land delimited bit of water--more like a smaller
lake, connected by an inlet or passage to the larger one, and yet
itself a respectable body of water of perhaps twenty acres of surface
and almost circular in form. The manner in which to the east, the
north, the south, the west, even, except for the passage by which
the island to the north of it was separated from the mainland, this
pool or tarn was encircled by trees! And cat-tails and water-lilies
here and there--a few along its shores. And somehow suggesting an
especially arranged pool or tarn to which one who was weary of life and
cares--anxious to be away from the strife and contentions of the world,
might most wisely and yet gloomily repair.

And as they glided into this, this still dark water seemed to grip
Clyde as nothing here or anywhere before this ever had--to change his
mood. For once here he seemed to be fairly pulled or lured along into
it, and having encircled its quiet banks, to be drifting, drifting--in
endless space where was no end of anything--no plots--no plans--no
practical problems to be solved--nothing. The insidious beauty of this
place! Truly, it seemed to mock him--this strangeness--this dark pool,
surrounded on all sides by those wonderful, soft, fir trees. And the
water itself looking like a huge, black pearl cast by some mighty hand,
in anger possibly, in sport or phantasy maybe, into the bosom of this
valley of dark, green plush--and which seemed bottomless as he gazed
into it.

And yet, what did it all suggest so strongly? Death! Death! More
definitely than anything he had ever seen before. Death! But also a
still, quiet, unprotesting type of death into which one, by reason
of choice or hypnosis or unutterable weariness, might joyfully and
gratefully sink. So quiet--so shaded--so serene. Even Roberta exclaimed
over this. And he now felt for the first time the grip of some
seemingly strong, and yet friendly sympathetic, hands laid firmly on
his shoulders. The comfort of them! The warmth! The strength! For now
they seemed to have a steadying effect on him and he liked them--their
reassurance--their support. If only they would not be removed! If only
they would remain always--the hands of this friend! For where had he
ever known this comforting and almost tender sensation before in all
his life? Not anywhere--and somehow this calmed him and he seemed to
slip away from the reality of all things.

To be sure, there was Roberta over there, but by now she had faded to a
shadow or thought really, a form of illusion more vaporous than real.
And while there was something about her in color, form that suggested
reality--still she was very insubstantial--so very--and once more now
he felt strangely alone. For the hands of the friend of firm grip had
vanished also. And Clyde was alone, so very much alone and forlorn, in
this somber, beautiful realm to which apparently he had been led, and
then deserted. Also he felt strangely cold--the spell of this strange
beauty overwhelming him with a kind of chill.

He had come here for what?

And he must do what?

Kill Roberta? Oh, no.

And again he lowered his head and gazed into the fascinating and yet
treacherous depths of that magnetic, bluish, purple pool, which, as
he continued to gaze, seemed to change its form kaleidoscopically
to a large, crystalline ball. But what was that moving about in
this crystal? A form! It came nearer--clearer--and as it did so, he
recognized Roberta struggling and waving her thin white arms out of the
water and reaching toward him! God! How terrible! The expression on her
face! What in God's name was he thinking of anyway? Death! Murder!

And suddenly becoming conscious that his courage, on which he had
counted so much this long while to sustain him here, was leaving him,
and he instantly and consciously plumbing the depths of his being in a
vain search to recapture it.

    Kit,kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

(The weird, haunting cry of that unearthly bird again. So cold, so
harsh! Here it was once more to startle him out of his soul flight into
a realization of the real or unreal immediate problem with all of its
torturesome angles that lay before him.)

He must face this thing! He must!

    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

What was it sounding--a warning--a protest--condemnation? The same bird
that had marked the very birth of this miserable plan. For there it was
now upon that dead tree--that wretched bird. And now it was flying to
another one--as dead--a little farther inland and crying as it did so.
God!

And then to the shore again in spite of himself. For Clyde, in order
to justify his having brought his bag, now must suggest that pictures
of this be taken--and of Roberta--and of himself, possibly--on land
and water. For that would bring her into the boat again, without his
bag, which would be safe and dry on land. And once on shore, actually
pretending to be seeking out various special views here and there,
while he fixed in his mind the exact tree at the base of which he might
leave his bag against his return--which must be soon now--must be soon.
They would not come on shore again together. Never! Never! And that
in spite of Roberta protesting that she was getting tired; and did he
not think they ought to be starting back pretty soon? It must be after
five, surely. And Clyde, assuring her that presently they would--after
he had made one or two more pictures of her in the boat with those
wonderful trees--that island and this dark water around and beneath her.

       *       *       *       *       *

His wet, damp, nervous hands!

And his dark, liquid, nervous eyes, looking anywhere but at her.

       *       *       *       *       *

And then once more on the water again--about five hundred feet from
shore, the while he fumbled aimlessly with the hard and heavy and yet
small camera that he now held, as the boat floated out nearer the
center. And then, at this point and time looking fearfully about. For
now--now--in spite of himself, the long evaded and yet commanding
moment. And no voice or figure or sound on shore. No road or cabin or
smoke! And the moment which he or something had planned for him, and
which was now to decide his fate at hand! The moment of action--of
crisis! All that he needed to do now was to turn swiftly and savagely
to one side or the other--leap up--upon the left wale or right and
upset the boat; or, failing that, rock it swiftly, and if Roberta
protested too much, strike her with the camera in his hand, or one of
the oars free at his right. It could be done--it could be done--swiftly
and simply, were he now of the mind and heart, or lack of it--with him
swimming swiftly away thereafter to freedom--to success--of course--to
Sondra and happiness--a new and greater and sweeter life than any he
had ever known.

Yet why was he waiting now?

What was the matter with him, anyhow?

Why was he waiting?

At this cataclysmic moment, and in the face of the utmost, the most
urgent need of action, a sudden palsy of the will--of courage--of hate
or rage sufficient; and with Roberta from her seat in the stern of the
boat gazing at his troubled and then suddenly distorted and fulgurous,
yet weak and even unbalanced face--a face of a sudden, instead of
angry, ferocious, demoniac--confused and all but meaningless in its
registration of a balanced combat between fear (a chemic revulsion
against death or murderous brutality that would bring death) and a
harried and restless and yet self-repressed desire to do--to do--to
do--yet temporarily unbreakable here and now--a static between a
powerful compulsion to do and yet not to do.

And in the meantime his eyes--the pupils of the same growing
momentarily larger and more lurid; his face and body and hands tense
and contracted--the stillness of his position, the balanced immobility
of the mood more and more ominous, yet in truth not suggesting a
brutal, courageous power to destroy, but the imminence of trance or
spasm.

And Roberta, suddenly noticing the strangeness of it all--the something
of eerie unreason or physical and mental indetermination so strangely
and painfully contrasting with this scene, exclaiming: "Why, Clyde!
Clyde! What is it? Whatever is the matter with you anyhow? You look
so--so strange--so--so--Why, I never saw you look like this before.
What is it?" And suddenly rising, or rather leaning forward, and by
crawling along the even keel, attempting to approach him, since he
looked as though he was about to fall forward into the boat--or to
one side and out into the water. And Clyde, as instantly sensing the
profoundness of his own failure, his own cowardice or inadequateness
for such an occasion, as instantly yielding to a tide of submerged
hate, not only for himself, but Roberta--her power--or that of life
to restrain him in this way. And yet fearing to act in any way--being
unwilling to--being willing only to say that never, never would he
marry her--that never, even should she expose him, would he leave here
with her to marry her--that he was in love with Sondra and would cling
only to her--and yet not being able to say that even. But angry and
confused and glowering. And then, as she drew near him, seeking to take
his hand in hers and the camera from him in order to put it in the
boat, he flinging out at her, but not even then with any intention to
do other than free himself of her--her touch--her pleading--consoling
sympathy--her presence forever--God!

Yet (the camera still unconsciously held tight) pushing at her with so
much vehemence as not only to strike her lips and nose and chin with
it, but to throw her back sidewise toward the left wale which caused
the boat to careen to the very water's edge. And then he, stirred by
her sharp scream, (as much due to the lurch of the boat, as the cut
on her nose and lip), rising and reaching half to assist or recapture
her and half to apologize for the unintended blow--yet in so doing
completely capsizing the boat--himself and Roberta being as instantly
thrown into the water. And the left wale of the boat as it turned,
striking Roberta on the head as she sank and then rose for the first
time, her frantic, contorted face turned to Clyde, who by now had
righted himself. For she was stunned, horror-struck, unintelligible
with pain and fear--her lifelong fear of water and drowning and the
blow he had so accidentally and all but unconsciously administered.

"Help! Help!

"Oh, my God, I'm drowning, I'm drowning. Help! Oh, my God!

"Clyde, Clyde!"

       *       *       *       *       *

And then the voice at his ear!

       *       *       *       *       *

"But this--this--is not this that which you have been thinking and
wishing for this while--you in your great need? And behold! For despite
your fear, your cowardice, this--this--has been done for you. An
accident--an accident--an unintentional blow on your part is now saving
you the labor of what you sought, and yet did not have the courage to
do! But will you now, and when you need not, since it is an accident,
by going to her rescue, once more plunge yourself in the horror of
that defeat and failure which has so tortured you and from which this
now releases you? You might save her. But again you might not! For
see how she strikes about. She is stunned. She herself is unable to
save herself and by her erratic terror, if you draw near her now, may
bring about your own death also. But you desire to live! And her living
will make your life not worth while from now on. Rest but a moment--a
fraction of a minute! Wait--wait--ignore the pity of that appeal. And
then--then--But there! Behold. It is over. She is sinking now. You
will never, never see her alive any more--ever. And there is your own
hat upon the water--as you wished. And upon the boat, clinging to that
rowlock a veil belonging to her. Leave it. Will it not show that this
was an accident?"

And apart from that, nothing--a few ripples--the peace and solemnity
of this wondrous scene. And then once more the voice of that weird,
contemptuous, mocking, lonely bird.

    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!
    Kit, kit, kit, Ca-a-a-ah!

The cry of that devilish bird upon that dead limb--the weir-weir.

And then Clyde, with the sound of Roberta's cries still in his ears,
that last frantic, white, appealing look in her eyes, swimming heavily,
gloomily and darkly to shore. And the thought that, after all, he
had not really killed her. No, no. Thank God for that. He had not.
And yet (stepping up on the near-by bank and shaking the water from
his clothes) had he? Or, had he not? For had he not refused to go to
her rescue, and when he might have saved her, and when the fault for
casting her in the water, however accidentally, was so truly his? And
yet--and yet--

       *       *       *       *       *

The dusk and silence of a closing day. A concealed spot in the depths
of the same sheltering woods where alone and dripping, his dry bag
near, Clyde stood, and by waiting, sought to dry himself. But in
the interim, removing from the side of the bag the unused tripod of
his camera and seeking an obscure, dead log farther in the woods,
hiding it. Had any one seen? Was any one looking? Then returning and
wondering as to the direction! He must go west and then south. He
must not get turned about! But the repeated cry of that bird,--harsh,
nerve shaking. And then the gloom, in spite of the summer stars.
And a youth making his way through a dark, uninhabited wood, a dry
straw hat upon his head, a bag in his hand, walking briskly and yet
warily--south--south.




                              BOOK THREE




                               CHAPTER I


Cataraqui County extending from the northernmost line of the village
known as Three Mile Bay on the south to the Canadian border, on the
north a distance of fifty miles. And from Senaschet and Indian Lakes on
the east to the Rock and Scarf Rivers on the west--a width of thirty
miles. Its greater portion covered by uninhabited forests and lakes,
yet dotted here and there with such villages and hamlets as Koontz,
Grass Lake, North Wallace, Brown Lake, with Bridgeburg, the county
seat, numbering no less than two thousand souls of the fifteen thousand
in the entire county. And the central square of the town occupied by
the old and yet not ungraceful county courthouse, a cupola with a clock
and some pigeons surmounting it, the four principal business streets of
the small town facing it.

In the office of the County Coroner in the northeast corner of the
building on Friday, July ninth, one Fred Heit, coroner, a large and
broad-shouldered individual with a set of gray-brown whiskers such as
might have graced a Mormon elder. His face was large and his hands and
his feet also. And his girth was proportionate.

At the time that this presentation begins, about two-thirty in the
afternoon, he was lethargically turning the leaves of a mail-order
catalogue for which his wife had asked him to write. And while
deciphering from its pages the price of shoes, jackets, hats, and caps
for his five omnivorous children, a greatcoat for himself of soothing
proportions, high collar, broad belt, large, impressive buttons
chancing to take his eye, he had paused to consider regretfully that
the family budget of three thousand dollars a year would never permit
of so great luxury this coming winter, particularly since his wife,
Ella, had had her mind upon a fur coat for at least three winters past.

However his thoughts might have eventuated on this occasion, they were
interrupted by the whirr of a telephone bell.

"Yes, this is Mr. Heit speaking--Wallace Upham of Big Bittern. Why,
yes, go on, Wallace--young couple drowned--all right, just wait a
minute----"

He turned to the politically active youth who drew a salary from
the county under the listing of "secretary to the coroner"--"Get
these points, Earl." Then into the telephone: "All right, Wallace,
now give me all the facts--everything--yes. The body of the wife
found but not that of the husband--yes--a boat upset on the south
shore--yes--straw hat without any lining--yes--some marks about her
mouth and eye--her coat and hat at the inn--yes--a letter in one of the
pockets of the coat--addressed to who?--Mrs. Titus Alden, Biltz, Mimico
County--yes--still dragging for the man's body, are they?--yes--no
trace of him yet--I see. All right, Wallace----Well--I'll tell you,
Wallace, have them leave the coat and hat just where they are. Let
me see--it's two-thirty now. I'll be up on the four o'clock. The bus
from the inn there meets that, doesn't it? Well, I'll be over on that,
sure----And, Wallace, I wish you'd write down the names of all present
who saw the body brought up. What was that?--eighteen feet of water
at least?--yes--a veil caught in one of the row-locks--yes--a brown
veil--yes--sure, that's all----Well, then have them leave everything
just as found, Wallace, and I'll be right up. Yes. Wallace, thank
you--Good-by."

Slowly Mr. Heit restored the receiver to the hook and as slowly arose
from the capacious walnut-hued chair in which he sat, stroking his
heavy whiskers, while he eyed Earl Newcomb, combination typist, record
clerk, and what not.

"You got all that down, did you, Earl?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, you better get your hat and coat and come along with me. We'll
have to catch that 3:10. You can fill in a few subpœnas on the train. I
should say you better take fifteen or twenty--to be on the safe side,
and take the names of such witnesses as we can find on the spot. And
you better call up Mrs. Heit and say 'taint likely I'll be home for
dinner to-night or much before the down train. We may have to stay up
there until to-morrow. You never can tell in these cases how they're
going to turn out and it's best to be on the safe side."

Heit turned to a coat-room in one corner of the musty old room and
extracted a large, soft-brimmed, straw hat, the downward curving edges
of which seemed to heighten the really bland and yet ogreish effect of
his protruding eyes and voluminous whiskers, and having thus equipped
himself, said: "I'm just going in the sheriff's office a minute, Earl.
You'd better call up the _Republican_ and the _Democrat_ and tell 'em
about this, so they won't think we're slightin' 'em. Then I'll meet you
down at the station." And he lumbered out.

And Earl Newcomb, a tall, slender, shock-headed young man of perhaps
nineteen, and of a very serious, if at times befuddled, manner, at once
seized a sheaf of subpœnas, and while stuffing these in his pocket,
sought to get Mrs. Heit on the telephone. And then, after explaining
to the newspapers about a reported double drowning at Big Bittern, he
seized his own blue-banded straw hat, some two sizes too large for him,
and hurried down the hall, only to encounter, opposite the wide-open
office door of the district attorney, Zillah Saunders, spinster and
solitary stenographer to the locally somewhat famous and mercurial
Orville W. Mason, district attorney. She was on her way to the
auditor's office, but being struck by the preoccupation and haste of
Mr. Newcomb, usually so much more deliberate, she now called: "Hello,
Earl. What's the rush? Where you going so fast?"

"Double drowning up at Big Bittern, we hear. Maybe something worse. Mr.
Heit's going up and I'm going along. We have to make that 3:10."

"Who said so? Is it any one from here?"

"Don't know yet, but don't think so. There was a letter in the girl's
pocket addressed to some one in Biltz, Mimico County, a Mrs. Alden.
I'll tell you when we get back or I'll telephone you."

"My goodness, if it's a crime, Mr. Mason'll be interested, won't he?"

"Sure, I'll telephone him, or Mr. Heit will. If you see Bud Parker or
Karel Badnell, tell 'em I had to go out of town, and call up my mother
for me, will you, Zillah, and tell her, too. I'm afraid I won't have
time."

"Sure I will, Earl."

"Thanks."

And, highly interested by this latest development in the ordinary
humdrum life of his chief, he skipped gayly and even eagerly down the
south steps of the Cataraqui County Courthouse, while Miss Saunders,
knowing that her own chief was off on some business connected with the
approaching County Republican Convention, and there being no one else
in his office with whom she could communicate at this time, went on to
the auditor's office, where it was possible to retail to any who might
be assembled there, all that she had gathered concerning this seemingly
important lake tragedy.




                              CHAPTER II


The information obtained by Coroner Heit and his assistant was of a
singular and disturbing character. In the first instance, because of
the disappearance of a boat and an apparently happy and attractive
couple bent on sight-seeing, an early morning search, instigated by the
inn-keeper of this region, had revealed, in Moon Cove, the presence
of the overturned canoe, also the hat and veil. And immediately such
available employees, as well as guides and guests of the Inn, as could
be impressed, had begun diving into the waters or by means of long
poles equipped with hooks attempting to bring one or both bodies to the
surface. The fact, as reported by Sim Shoop, the guide, as well as the
innkeeper and the boat-house lessee, that the lost girl was both young
and attractive and her companion seemingly a youth of some means, was
sufficient to whet the interest of this lake group of woodsmen and inn
employees to a point which verged on sorrow. And in addition, there was
intense curiosity as to how, on so fair and windless a day, so strange
an accident could have occurred.

But what created far more excitement after a very little time was
the fact that at high noon one of the men who trolled--John Pole--a
woodsman, was at last successful in bringing to the surface Roberta
herself, drawn upward by the skirt of her dress, obviously bruised
about the face--the lips and nose and above and below the right
eye--a fact which to those who were assisting at once seemed to be
suspicious. Indeed, John Pole, who with Joe Rainer at the oars was the
one who had succeeded in bringing her to the surface, had exclaimed
at once on seeing her: "Why, the pore little thing! She don't seem to
weigh more'n nothin' at all. It's a wonder tuh me she coulda sunk."
And then reaching over and gathering her in his strong arms, he drew
her in, dripping and lifeless, while his companions signaled to the
other searchers, who came swiftly. And putting back from her face the
long, brown, thick hair which the action of the water had swirled
concealingly across it, he had added: "I do declare, Joe! Looka here.
It does look like the child mighta been hit by somethin'! Looka here,
Joe!" And soon the group of woodsmen and inn guests in their boats
alongside were looking at the brownish-blue marks on Roberta's face.

And forthwith, even while the body of Roberta was being taken north
to the boat-house, and the dragging for the body of the lost man was
resumed, suspicions were being voiced in such phrases as: "Well, it
looks kinda queer--them marks--an' all,--don't it? It's curious a boat
like that coulda upset on a day like yesterday." "We'll soon know if
he's down there or not!"; the feeling, following failure after hours
of fruitless search for him, definitely coalescing at last into the
conclusion that more than likely he was not down there at all--a hard
and stirring thought to all.

Subsequent to this, the guide who had brought Clyde and Roberta from
Gun Lodge conferring with the inn-keepers at Big Bittern and Grass
Lake, it was factually determined: (1) that the drowned girl had left
her bag at Gun Lodge whereas Clifford Golden had taken his with him;
(2) that there was a disturbing discrepancy between the registration at
Grass Lake and that at Big Bittern, the names Carl Graham and Clifford
Golden being carefully discussed by the two inn-keepers and the
identity of the bearer as to looks established; and (3) that the said
Clifford Golden or Carl Graham had asked of the guide who had driven
him over to Big Bittern whether there were many people on the lake
that day. And thereafter the suspicions thus far engendered further
coalescing into the certainty that there had been foul play. There was
scarcely any doubt of it.

Immediately upon his arrival Coroner Heit was made to understand
that these men of the north woods were deeply moved and in addition
determined in their suspicions. They did not believe that the body
of Clifford Golden or Carl Graham had ever sunk to the bottom of the
lake. With the result that Heit on viewing the body of the unknown
girl laid carefully on a cot in the boat-house, and finding her young
and attractive, was strangely affected, not only by her looks but this
circumambient atmosphere of suspicion. Worse yet, on retiring to the
office of the manager of the inn, and being handed the letter found in
the pocket of Roberta's coat, he was definitely swayed in the direction
of a somber and unshakable suspicion. For he read:

    Grass Lake, N. Y., July 8th.

    DEAREST MAMMA:

    We're up here and we're going to be married, but this is for your
    eyes alone. Please don't show it to papa or any one, for it mustn't
    become known yet. I told you why at Christmas. And you're not to
    worry or ask any questions or tell any one except just that you've
    heard from me and know where I am--not anybody. And you mustn't
    think I won't be getting along all right because I will be. Here's
    a big hug and kiss for each cheek, mamma. Be sure and make father
    understand that it's all right without telling him anything, or
    Emily or Tom or Gifford, either, do you hear? I'm sending you nice,
    big kisses.

                                                              Lovingly,
                                                                  BERT.

    P.S. This must be your secret and mine until I write you different
    a little later on.

And in the upper right-hand corner of the paper, as well as on the
envelope, were printed the words: "Grass Lake Inn, Grass Lake, N.
Y., Jack Evans, Prop." And the letter had evidently been written the
morning after the night they had spent at Grass Lake as Mr. and Mrs.
Carl Graham.

The waywardness of young girls!

For plainly, as this letter indicated, these two had stayed together as
man and wife at that inn when they were not as yet married. He winced
as he read, for he had daughters of his own of whom he was exceedingly
fond. But at this point he had a thought. A quadrennial county election
was impending, the voting to take place the following November, at
which were to be chosen for three years more the entire roster of
county offices, his own included, and in addition this year a county
judge whose term was for six years. In August, some six weeks further
on, were to be held the county Republican and Democratic conventions at
which were to be chosen the regular party nominees for these respective
offices. Yet for no one of these places, thus far, other than that of
the county judgeship, could the present incumbent of the office of
district attorney possibly look forward with any hope, since already he
had held the position of district attorney for two consecutive terms,
a length of office due to the fact that not only was he a good orator
of the inland political stripe but also, as the chief legal official of
the county, he was in a position to do one and another of his friends
a favor. But now, unless he were so fortunate as to be nominated and
subsequently elected to this county judgeship, defeat and political
doldrums loomed ahead. For during all his term of office thus far,
there had been no really important case in connection with which he had
been able to distinguish himself and so rightfully and hopefully demand
further recognition from the people. But this....

But now, as the Coroner shrewdly foresaw, might not this case prove
the very thing to fix the attention and favor of the people upon one
man--the incumbent district attorney--a close and helpful friend of
his, thus far--and so sufficiently redound to his credit and strength,
and through him to the party ticket itself, so that at the coming
election all might be elected--the reigning district attorney thus
winning for himself not only the nomination for but his election to the
six-year term judgeship. Stranger things than this had happened in the
political world.

Immediately he decided not to answer any questions in regard to this
letter, since it promised a quick solution of the mystery of the
perpetrator of the crime, if there had been one, plus exceptional
credit in the present political situation to whosoever should appear
to be instrumental in the same. At the same time he at once ordered
Earl Newcomb, as well as the guide who had brought Roberta and Clyde to
Big Bittern, to return to Gun Lodge station from where the couple had
come and say that under no circumstances was the bag held there to be
surrendered to any one save himself or a representative of the district
attorney. Then, when he was about to telephone to Biltz to ascertain
whether there was such a family as Alden possessing a daughter by the
name of Bert, or possibly Alberta, he was most providentially, as it
seemed to him, interrupted by two men and a boy, trappers and hunters
of this region, who, accompanied by a crowd of those now familiar with
the tragedy, were almost tumultuously ushered into his presence. For
they had news--news of the utmost importance! As they now related,
with many interruptions and corrections, at about five o'clock of the
afternoon of the day on which Roberta was drowned, they were setting
out from Three Mile Bay, some twelve miles south of Big Bittern, to
hunt and fish in and near this lake. And, as they now unanimously
testified, on the night in question, at about nine o'clock, as they
were nearing the south shore of Big Bittern--perhaps three miles to
the south of it--they had encountered a young man, whom they took to
be some stranger making his way from the inn at Big Bittern south to
the village at Three Mile Bay. He was a smartishly and decidedly well
dressed youth for these parts, as they now said--wearing a straw hat
and carrying a bag, and at the time they wondered why such a trip on
foot and at such an hour since there was a train south early next
morning which reached Three Mile Bay in an hour's time. And why, too,
should he have been so startled at meeting them? For as they described
it, on his encountering them in the woods thus, he had jumped back as
though startled and worse--terrified--as though about to run. To be
sure, the lantern one of them was carrying was turned exceedingly low,
the moon being still bright, and they had walked quietly, as became men
who were listening for wild life of any kind. At the same time, surely
this was a perfectly safe part of the country, traversed for the most
part by honest citizens such as themselves, and there was no need for
a young man to jump as though he were seeking to hide in the brush.
However, when the youth, Bud Brunig, who carried the light, turned
it up the stranger seemed to recover his poise and after a moment in
response to their "Howdy" had replied: "How do you do? How far is it to
Three Mile Bay?" and they had replied, "About seven mile." And then he
had gone on and they also, discussing the encounter.

And now, since the description of this youth tallied almost exactly
with that given by the guide who had driven Clyde over from Gun Lodge,
as well as that furnished by the inn-keepers at Big Bittern and Grass
Lake, it seemed all too plain that he must be the same youth who had
been in that boat with the mysterious dead girl.

At once Earl Newcomb suggested to his chief that he be permitted to
telephone to the one inn-keeper at Three Mile Bay to see if by any
chance this mysterious stranger had been seen or had registered there.
He had not. Nor apparently at that time had he been seen by any other
than the three men. In fact, he had vanished as though into air,
although by nightfall of this same day it was established that on the
morning following the chance meeting of the men with the stranger, a
youth of somewhat the same description and carrying a bag, but wearing
a cap--not a straw hat--had taken passage for Sharon on the small lake
steamer "Cygnus" plying between that place and Three Mile Bay. But
again, beyond that point, the trail appeared to be lost. No one at
Sharon, at least up to this time, seemed to recall either the arrival
or departure of any such person. Even the captain himself, as he later
testified, had not particularly noted his debarkation--there were some
fourteen others going down the lake that day and he could not be sure
of any one person.

But in so far as the group at Big Bittern was concerned, the conclusion
slowly but definitely impressed itself upon all those present that
whoever this individual was, he was an unmitigated villain--a reptilian
villain! And forthwith there was doubled and trebled in the minds
of all a most urgent desire that he be overtaken and captured. The
scoundrel! The murderer! And at once there was broadcast throughout
this region by word of mouth, telephone, telegraph, to such papers as
_The Argus_ and _Times-Union_ of Albany, and _The Star_ of Lycurgus,
the news of this pathetic tragedy with the added hint that it might
conceal a crime of the gravest character.




                              CHAPTER III


Coroner Heit, his official duties completed for the time being, found
himself pondering, as he traveled south on the lake train, how he was
to proceed farther. What was the next step he should take in this
pathetic affair? For the coroner, as he had looked at Roberta before he
left, was really deeply moved. She seemed so young and innocent-looking
and pretty. The little blue serge dress lying heavily and clinging
tightly to her, her very small hands folded across her breast, her
warm, brown hair still damp from its twenty-four hours in the water,
yet somehow suggesting some of the vivacity and passion that had
invested her in life--all seemed to indicate a sweetness which had
nothing to do with crime.

But deplorable as it might be, and undoubtedly was, there was another
aspect of the case that more vitally concerned himself. Should he
go to Biltz and convey to the Mrs. Alden of the letter the dreadful
intelligence of her daughter's death, at the same time inquiring
about the character and whereabouts of the man who had been with
her, or should he proceed first to District Attorney Mason's office
in Bridgeburg and having imparted to him all of the details of the
case, allow that gentleman to assume the painful responsibility of
devastating a probably utterly respectable home? For there was the
political situation to be considered. And while he himself might
act and so take personal credit, still there was this general party
situation to be thought of. A strong man should undoubtedly head and
so strengthen the party ticket this fall and here was the golden
opportunity. The latter course seemed wiser. It would provide his
friend, the district attorney, with his great chance. Arriving in
Bridgeburg in this mood, he ponderously invaded the office of Orville
W. Mason, the district attorney, who immediately sat up, all attention,
sensing something of import in the coroner's manner.

Mason was a short, broad-chested, broad-backed and vigorous individual
physically, but in his late youth had been so unfortunate as to have
an otherwise pleasant and even arresting face marred by a broken nose,
which gave to him a most unprepossessing, almost sinister, look. Yet he
was far from sinister. Rather, romantic and emotional. His boyhood had
been one of poverty and neglect, causing him in his later and somewhat
more successful years to look on those with whom life had dealt more
kindly as too favorably treated. The son of a poor farmer's widow, he
had seen his mother put to such straits to make ends meet that by the
time he reached the age of twelve he had surrendered nearly all of
the pleasures of youth in order to assist her. And then, at fourteen,
while skating, he had fallen and broken his nose in such a way as to
forever disfigure his face. Thereafter, feeling himself handicapped
in the youthful sorting contests which gave to other boys the female
companions he most craved, he had grown exceedingly sensitive to the
fact of his facial handicap. And this had eventually resulted in what
the Freudians are accustomed to describe as a psychic sex scar.

At the age of seventeen, however, he had succeeded in interesting the
publisher and editor of the Bridgeburg _Republican_ to the extent
that he was eventually installed as official local news-gatherer of
the town. Later he came to be the Cataraqui County correspondent of
such papers as the Albany _Times-Union_ and the Utica _Star_, ending
eventually at the age of nineteen with the privilege of studying law
in the office of one ex-Judge Davis Richofer, of Bridgeburg. And a
few years later, after having been admitted to the bar, he had been
taken up by several county politicians and merchants who saw to it
that he was sent to the lower house of the state legislature for some
six consecutive years, where, by reason of a modest and at the same
time shrewd and ambitious willingness to do as he was instructed,
he attained favor with those at the capital while at the same time
retaining the good will of his home-town sponsors. Later, returning
to Bridgeburg and possessing some gifts of oratory, he was given,
first, the position of assistant district attorney for four years, and
following that elected auditor, and subsequently district attorney
for two terms of four years each. Having acquired so high a position
locally, he was able to marry the daughter of a local druggist of some
means, and two children had been born to them.

In regard to this particular case he had already heard from Miss
Saunders all she knew of the drowning, and, like the coroner, had
been immediately impressed with the fact that the probable publicity
attendant on such a case as this appeared to be might be just what
he needed to revive a wavering political prestige and might perhaps
solve the problem of his future. At any rate he was most intensely
interested. So that now, upon sight of Heit, he showed plainly the keen
interest he felt in the case.

"Well, Colonel Heit?"

"Well, Orville, I'm just back from Big Bittern. It looks to me as
though I've got a case for you now that's going to take quite a little
of your time."

Heit's large eyes bulged and conveyed hints of much more than was
implied by his non-committal opening remark.

"You mean that drowning up there?" returned the district attorney.

"Yes, sir. Just that," replied the coroner.

"You've some reason for thinking there's something wrong up there?"

"Well, the truth is, Orville, I think there's hardly a doubt that this
is a case of murder." Heit's heavy eyes glowed somberly. "Of course,
it's best to be on the safe side, and I'm only telling you this in
confidence, because even yet I'm not absolutely positive that that
young man's body may not be in the lake. But it looks mighty suspicions
to me, Orville. There's been at least fifteen men up there in rowboats
all day yesterday and to-day, dragging the south part of that lake. I
had a number of the boys take soundings here and there, and the water
ain't more than twenty-five feet deep at any point. But so far they
haven't found any trace of him. They brought her up about one o'clock
yesterday, after they'd been only dragging a few hours, and a mighty
pretty girl she is too, Orville--quite young--not more than eighteen or
twenty, I should say. But there are some very suspicious circumstances
about it all that make me think that he ain't in there. In fact, I
never saw a case that I thought looked more like a devilish crime than
this."

As he said this, he began to search in the right-hand pocket of his
well-worn and baggy linen suit and finally extracted Roberta's letter,
which he handed his friend, drawing up a chair and seating himself
while the district attorney proceeded to read.

"Well, this does look rather suspicious, don't it?" he announced,
as he finished. "You say they haven't found him yet. Well, have you
communicated with this woman to see what she knows about it?"

"No, Orville, I haven't," replied Heit, slowly and meditatively. "And
I'll tell you why. The fact is, I decided up there last night that this
was something I had better talk over with you before I did anything
at all. You know what the political situation here is just now. And
how the proper handling of a case like this is likely to affect public
opinion this fall. And while I certainly don't think we ought to mix
politics in with crime there certainly is no reason why we shouldn't
handle this in such a way as to make it count in our favor. And so I
thought I had better come and see you first. Of course, if you want me
to, Orville, I'll go over there. Only I was thinking that perhaps it
would be better for you to go, and find out just who this fellow is
and all about him. You know what a case like this might mean from a
political point of view, if only we clean it up, and I know you're the
one to do it, Orville."

"Thanks, Fred, thanks," replied Mason, solemnly, tapping his desk with
the letter and squinting at his friend. "I'm grateful to you for your
opinion and you've outlined the very best way to go about it, I think.
You're sure no one outside yourself has seen this letter?"

"Only the envelope. And no one but Mr. Hubbard, the proprietor of the
inn up there, has seen that, and he told me that he found it in her
pocket and took charge of it for fear it might disappear or be opened
before I got there. He said he had a feeling there might be something
wrong the moment he heard of the drowning. The young man had acted so
nervous--strange-like, he said."

"Very good, Fred. Then don't say anything more about it to any one
for the present, will you? I'll go right over there, of course. But
what else did you find, anything?" Mr. Mason was quite alive now,
interrogative, dynamic, and a bit dictatorial in his manner, even to
his old friend.

"Plenty, plenty," replied the coroner, most sagely and solemnly. "There
were some suspicious cuts or marks under the girl's right eye and above
the left temple, Orville, and across the lip and nose, as though the
poor little thing mighta been hit by something--a stone or a stick or
one of those oafs that they found floating up there. She's just a child
yet, Orville, in looks and size, anyhow--a very pretty girl--but not
as good as she might have been, as I'll show you presently." At this
point the coroner paused to extract a large handkerchief and blow into
it a very loud blast, brushing his beard afterward in a most orderly
way. "I didn't have time to get a doctor up there and besides I'm
going to hold the inquest down here Monday, if I can. I've ordered the
Lutz boys to go up there to-day and bring her body down. But the most
suspicious of all the evidence that has come to light so far, Orville,
is the testimony of two men and a boy who live up at Three Mile Bay and
who were walking up to Big Bittern on Thursday night to hunt and fish.
I had Earl take down their names and subpœna 'em for the inquest next
Monday."

And the coroner proceeded to detail their testimony about their
accidental meeting of Clyde.

"Well, well!" interjected the district attorney, thoroughly interested.

"Then, another thing, Orville," continued the coroner, "I had Earl
telephone the Three Mile Bay people, the owner of the hotel there
as well as the postmaster and the town marshal, but the only person
who appears to have seen the young man is the captain of that little
steamboat that runs from Three Mile Bay to Sharon. You know the man,
I guess, Captain Mooney. I left word with Earl to subpœna him too.
According to him, about eight-thirty Friday morning, or just before his
boat started for Sharon on its first trip, this same young man, or some
one very much like the description furnished, carrying a suitcase and
wearing a cap--he had on a straw hat when those three men met him--came
on board and paid his way to Sharon and got off there. Good-looking
young chap, the captain says. Very spry and well-dressed, more like a
young society man than anything else, and very stand-offish."

"Yes, yes," commented Mason.

"I also had Earl telephone the people at Sharon--whoever he could
reach--to see if he had been seen there getting off, but up to the
time I left last night no one seemed to remember him. But I left word
for Earl to telegraph a description of him to all the resort hotels
and stations hereabouts so that if he's anywhere around, they'll be on
the lookout for him. I thought you'd want me to do that. But I think
you'd better give me a writ for that bag at Gun Lodge Station. That may
contain something we ought to know. I'll go up and get it myself. Then
I want to go to Grass Lake and Three Mile Bay and Sharon yet to-day,
if I can, and see what else I can find. But I'm afraid, Orville, it's
a plain case of murder. The way he took that young girl to that hotel
up there at Grass Lake and then registered under another name at Big
Bittern, and the way he had her leave her bag and took his own with
him!" He shook his head most solemnly. "Those are not the actions of
an honest young man, Orville, and you know it. What I can't understand
is how her parents could let her go off like that anywhere with a man
without knowing about him in the first place."

"That's true," replied Mason, tactfully, but made intensely curious
by the fact that it had at least been partially established that the
girl in the case was not as good as she should have been. Adultery!
And with some youth of means, no doubt, from some one of the big
cities to the south. The prominence and publicity with which his own
activities in connection with this were likely to be laden! At once he
got up, energetically stirred. If he could only catch such a reptilian
criminal, and that in the face of all the sentiment that such a brutal
murder was likely to inspire! The August convention and nominations.
The fall election.

"Well, I'll be switched," he exclaimed, the presence of Heit, a
religious and conservative man, suppressing anything more emphatic. "I
do believe we're on the trail of something important, Fred. I really
think so. It looks very black to me--a most damnable outrage. I suppose
the first thing to do, really, is to telephone over there and see if
there is such a family as Alden and exactly where they live. It's not
more than fifty miles direct by car, if that much. Poor roads, though,"
he added. Then: "That poor woman. I dread that scene. It will be a
painful one, I know."

Then he called Zillah and asked her to ascertain if there was such
a person as Titus Alden living near Biltz. Also, exactly how to get
there. Next he added: "The first thing to do will be to get Burton back
here" (Burton being Burton Burleigh, his legal assistant, who had gone
away for a week-end vacation) "and put him in charge so as to furnish
you whatever you need in the way of writs and so on, Fred, while I go
right over to see this poor woman. And then, if you'll have Earl go
back up there and get that suitcase, I'll be most obliged to you. I'll
bring the father back with me, too, to identify the body. But don't
say anything at all about this letter now or my going over there until
I see you later, see." He grasped the hand of his friend. "In the
meantime," he went on, a little grandiosely, now feeling the tang of
great affairs upon him, "I want to thank you, Fred. I certainly do, and
I won't forget it, either. You know that, don't you?" He looked his old
friend squarely in the eye. "This may turn out better than we think.
It looks to be the biggest and most important case in all my term of
office, and if we can only clean it up satisfactorily and quickly,
before things break here this fall, it may do us all some good, eh?"

"Quite so, Orville, quite so," commented Fred Heit. "Not, as I said
before, that I think we ought to mix politics in with a thing like
this, but since it has come about so----" he paused, meditatively.

"And in the meantime," continued the district attorney, "if you'll have
Earl have some pictures made of the exact position where the boat,
oars, and hat were found, as well as mark the spot where the body was
found, and subpœna as many witnesses as you can, I'll have vouchers
for it all put through with the auditor. And to-morrow or Monday I'll
pitch in and help myself."

And here he gripped Heit's right hand--then patted him on the
shoulder. And Heit, much gratified by his various moves so far--and in
consequence hopeful for the future--now took up his weird straw hat
and buttoning his thin, loose coat, returned to his office to get his
faithful Earl on the long distance telephone to instruct him and to say
that he was returning to the scene of the crime himself.




                              CHAPTER IV


Orville Mason could readily sympathize with a family which on sight
struck him as having, perhaps, like himself endured the whips, the
scorns and the contumelies of life. As he drove up in his official car
from Bridgeburg at about four o'clock that Saturday afternoon, there
was the old tatterdemalion farmhouse and Titus Alden himself in his
shirt-sleeves and overalls coming up from a pig-pen at the foot of the
hill, his face and body suggesting a man who is constantly conscious
of the fact that he has made out so poorly. And now Mason regretted
that he had not telephoned before leaving Bridgeburg, for he could
see that the news of his daughter's death would shock such a man as
this most terribly. At the same time, Titus, noting his approach and
assuming that it might be some one who was seeking a direction, civilly
approached him.

"Is this Mr. Titus Alden?"

"Yes, sir, that's my name."

"Mr. Alden, my name is Mason. I am from Bridgeburg, district attorney
of Cataraqui County."

"Yes, sir," replied Titus, wondering by what strange chance the
district attorney of so distant a county should be approaching and
inquiring of him. And Mason now looked at Titus, not knowing just how
to begin. The bitterness of the news he had to impart--the crumpling
power of it upon such an obviously feeble and inadequate soul. They had
paused under one of the large, dark fir trees that stood in front of
the house. The wind in its needles was whispering its world-old murmur.

"Mr. Alden," began Mason, with more solemnity and delicacy than
ordinarily characterized him, "you are the father of a girl by the name
of Bert, or possibly Alberta, are you not? I'm not sure that I have the
name right."

"Roberta," corrected Titus Alden, a titillating sense of something
untoward affecting his nerves as he said it.

And Mason, before making it impossible, probably, for this man to
connectedly inform him concerning all that he wished to know, now
proceeded to inquire: "By the way, do you happen to know a young man
around here by the name of Clifford Golden?"

"I don't recall that I ever heard of any such person," replied Titus,
slowly.

"Or Carl Graham?"

"No, sir. No one by that name either that I recall now."

"I thought so," exclaimed Mason, more to himself than to Titus. "By the
way," this shrewdly and commandingly, "where is your daughter now?"

"Why, she's in Lycurgus at present. She works there. But why do you
ask? Has she done anything she shouldn't--been to see you about
anything?" He achieved a wry smile while his gray-blue eyes were by now
perturbed by puzzled inquiry.

"One moment, Mr. Alden," proceeded Mason, tenderly and yet most firmly
and effectively. "I will explain everything to you in a moment. Just
now I want to ask you a few necessary questions." And he gazed at Titus
earnestly and sympathetically. "How long has it been since you last saw
your daughter?"

"Why, she left here last Tuesday morning to go back to Lycurgus. She
works down there for the Griffiths Collar & Shirt Company. But----?"

"Now, one moment," insisted the district attorney determinedly, "I'll
explain all in a moment. She was up here over the week-end, possibly.
Is that it?"

"She was up here on a vacation for about a month," explained Titus,
slowly and meticulously. "She wasn't feeling so very good and she came
home to rest up a bit. But she was all right when she left. You don't
mean to tell me, Mr. Mason, that anything has gone wrong with her, do
you?" He lifted one long, brown hand to his chin and cheek in a gesture
of nervous inquiry. "If I thought there was anything like that----?" He
ran his hand through his thinning gray hair.

"Have you had any word from her since she left here?" Mason went
on quietly, determined to extract as much practical information as
possible before the great blow fell. "Any information that she was
going anywhere but back there?"

"No, sir, we haven't. She's not hurt in any way, is she? She's not done
anything that's got her into trouble? But, no, that couldn't be. But
your questions! The way you talk." He was now trembling slightly, the
hand that sought his thin, pale lips, visibly and aimlessly playing
about his mouth. But instead of answering, the district attorney drew
from his pocket the letter of Roberta to her mother, and displaying
only the handwriting on the envelope, asked: "Is that the handwriting
of your daughter?"

"Yes, sir, that's her handwriting," replied Titus, his voice rising
slightly. "But what is this, Mr. District Attorney? How do you come
to have that? What's in there?" He clinched his hands in a nervous
way, for in Mason's eyes he now clearly foresaw tragedy in some
form. "What is this--this--what has she written in that letter? You
must tell me--if anything has happened to my girl!" He began to look
excitedly about as though it were his intention to return to the house
for aid--to communicate to his wife the dread that was coming upon
him--while Mason, seeing the agony into which he had plunged him, at
once seized him firmly and yet kindly by the arms and began:

"Mr. Alden, this is one of those dark times in the lives of some of us
when all the courage we have is most needed. I hesitate to tell you
because I am a man who has seen something of life and I know how you
will suffer."

"She is hurt. She is dead, maybe," exclaimed Titus, almost shrilly, the
pupils of his eyes dilating.

Orville Mason nodded.

"Roberta! My first born! My God! Our Heavenly Father!" His body
crumpled as though from a blow and he leaned to steady himself against
an adjacent tree. "But how? Where? In the factory by a machine? Oh,
dear God!" He turned as though to go to his wife, while the strong,
scar-nosed district attorney sought to detain him.

"One moment, Mr. Alden, one moment. You must not go to your wife yet. I
know this is very hard, terrible, but let me explain. Not in Lycurgus.
Not by any machine. No! No--drowned! In Big Bittern. She was up there
on an outing on Thursday, do you understand? Do you hear? Thursday. She
was drowned in Big Bittern on Thursday in a boat. It overturned."

The excited gestures and words of Titus at this point so disturbed the
district attorney that he found himself unable to explain as calmly as
he would have liked the process by which even an assumed accidental
drowning had come about. From the moment the word death in connection
with Roberta had been used by Mason, the mental state of Alden was that
of one not a little demented. After his first demands he now began
to vent a series of animal-like groans as though the breath had been
knocked from his body. At the same time, he bent over, crumpled up as
from pain--then struck his hands together and threw them to his temples.

"My Roberta dead! My daughter! Oh, no, no, Roberta! Oh, my God! Not
drowned! It can't be. And her mother speaking of her only an hour ago.
This will be the death of her when she hears it. It will kill me, too.
Yes, it will. Oh, my poor, dear, dear girl! My darling! I'm not strong
enough to stand anything like this, Mr. District Attorney."

He leaned heavily and wearily upon Mason's arms while the latter
sustained him as best he could. Then, after a moment, he turned
questioningly and erratically toward the front door of the house at
which he gazed as one might who was wholly demented. "Who's to tell
her?" he demanded. "How is any one to tell her?"

"But, Mr. Alden," consoled Mason, "for your own sake, for your wife's
sake, I must ask you now to calm yourself and help me consider this
matter as seriously as you would if it were not your daughter. There
is much more to this than I have been able to tell you. But you must
be calm. You must allow me to explain. This is all very terrible and I
sympathize with you wholly. I know what it means. But there are some
dreadful and painful facts that you will have to know about. Listen.
Listen."

And then, still holding Titus by the arm he proceeded to explain as
swiftly and forcefully as possible, the various additional facts and
suspicions in connection with the death of Roberta, finally giving
him her letter to read, and winding up with: "A crime! A crime, Mr.
Alden! That's what we think over in Bridgeburg, or at least that's what
we're afraid of--plain murder, Mr. Alden, to use a hard, cold word
in connection with it." He paused while Alden, struck by this--the
element of crime--gazed as one not quite able to comprehend. And, as he
gazed, Mason went on: "And as much as I respect your feelings, still
as the chief representative of the law in my county, I felt it to be
my personal duty to come here to-day in order to find out whether
there is anything that you or your wife or any of your family know
about this Clifford Golden, or Carl Graham, or whoever he is who lured
your daughter to that lonely lake up there. And while I know that the
blackest of suffering is yours right now, Mr. Alden, I maintain that
it should be your wish, as well as your duty, to do whatever you can
to help us clear up this matter. This letter here seems to indicate
that your wife at least knows something concerning this individual--his
name, anyhow." And he tapped the letter significantly and urgently.

The moment the suggested element of violence and wrong against his
daughter had been injected into this bitter loss, there was sufficient
animal instinct, as well as curiosity, resentment and love of the chase
inherent in Titus to cause him to recover his balance sufficiently to
give silent and solemn ear to what the district attorney was saying.
His daughter not only drowned, but murdered, and that by some youth
who according to this letter she was intending to marry! And he, her
father, not even aware of his existence! Strange that his wife should
know and he not. And that Roberta should not want him to know.

And at once, born for the most part of religion, convention and
a general rural suspicion of all urban life and the mystery and
involuteness of its ungodly ways, there sprang into his mind the
thought of a city seducer and betrayer--some youth of means, probably,
whom Roberta had met since going to Lycurgus and who had been able
to seduce her by a promise of marriage which he was not willing to
fulfill. And forthwith there flared up in his mind a terrible and
quite uncontrollable desire for revenge upon any one who could plot
so horrible a crime as this against his daughter. The scoundrel! The
raper! The murderer!

Here he and his wife had been thinking that Roberta was quietly and
earnestly and happily pursuing her hard, honest way in Lycurgus in
order to help them and herself. And from Thursday afternoon until
Friday her body had lain beneath the waters of that lake. And they
asleep in their comfortable beds, or walking about, totally unaware
of her dread state. And now her body in a strange room or morgue
somewhere, unseen and unattended by any of all those who loved her
so--and to-morrow to be removed by cold, indifferent public officials
to Bridgeburg.

"If there is a God," he exclaimed excitedly, "He will not let such a
scoundrel as this go unpunished! Oh, no, He will not! 'I have yet to
see,'" he suddenly quoted, "'the children of the righteous forsaken
or their seed begging for bread.'" At the same time, a quivering
compulsion for action dominating him, he added: "I must talk to my wife
about this right away. Oh, yes, I must. No, no, you wait here. I must
tell her first, and alone. I'll be back. I'll be back. You just wait
here. I know it will kill her. But she must know about this. Maybe she
can tell us who this is and then we can catch him before he manages
to get too far away. But, oh, my poor girl! My poor, dear Roberta! My
good, kind, faithful daughter!"

And so, talking in a maundering manner, his eyes and face betraying
an only half-sane misery, he turned, the shambling, automaton-like
motions of his angular figure now directing him to a lean-to, where, as
he knew, Mrs. Alden was preparing some extra dishes for the next day,
which was Sunday. But once there he paused in the doorway without the
courage to approach further, a man expressing in himself all the pathos
of helpless humanity in the face of the relentless and inexplicable
and indifferent forces of Life!

Mrs. Alden turned, and at the sight of his strained expression, dropped
her own hands lifelessly, the message of his eyes as instantly putting
to flight the simple, weary and yet peaceful contemplation in her own.

"Titus! For goodness' sake! Whatever _is_ the matter?"

Lifted hands, half-open mouth, an eerie, eccentric and uncalculated
tensing and then widening of the eyelids, and then the word: "Roberta!"

"What about her? What about her? Titus--what about her?"

Silence. More of those nervous twitchings of the mouth, eyes, hands.
Then... "Dead! She's been--been drowned!" followed by his complete
collapse on a bench that stood just inside the door. And Mrs. Alden,
staring for a moment, at first not quite comprehending, then fully
realizing, sinking heavily and without a word to the floor. And Titus,
looking at her and nodding his head as if to say: "Quite right. So
should it be. Momentary escape for her from the contemplation of this
horrible fact." And then slowly rising, going to her and kneeling
beside her, straightening her out. Then as slowly going out of the door
and around to the front of the house where Orville Mason was seated
on the broken front steps, contemplating speculatively along with the
afternoon sun in the west the misery that this lorn and incompetent
farmer was conveying to his wife. And wishing for the moment that it
might be otherwise--that no such case, however profitable to himself,
had arisen.

But now, at sight of Titus Alden, he jumped up and preceded the
skeleton-like figure into the lean-to. And finding Mrs. Alden, as
small as her daughter nearly, and limp and still, he gathered her
into his strong arms and carried her through the dining-room into the
living-room, where stood an antiquated lounge, on which he laid her.
And there, feeling for her pulse, and then hurrying for some water,
while he looked for some one--a son, daughter, neighbor, any one. But
not seeing any one, hurrying back with the water to dash a little of it
on her face and hands.

"Is there a doctor anywhere near here?" He was addressing Titus, who
was now kneeling by his wife.

"In Biltz--yes--Dr. Crane."

"Have you--has any one around here a telephone?"

"Mr. Wilcox." He pointed in the direction of the Wilcox's, whose
telephone Roberta had so recently used.

"Just watch her. I'll be back."

Forthwith he was out of the house and away to call Crane or any
other doctor, and then as swiftly returning with Mrs. Wilcox and her
daughter. And then waiting, waiting, until first neighbors arrived
and then eventually Dr. Crane, with whom he consulted as to the
advisability of discussing with Mrs. Alden yet this day the unescapable
mystery which had brought him here. And Dr. Crane, very much impressed
by Mr. Mason's solemn, legal manner, admitting that it might even be
best.

And at last Mrs. Alden treated with heroin and crooned and mourned
over by all present, being brought to the stage where it was possible,
slowly and with much encouragement, to hear in the first place what the
extenuating circumstances were; next being questioned concerning the
identity of the cryptic individual referred to in Roberta's letter. The
only person whom Mrs. Alden could recall as ever having been mentioned
by Roberta as paying particular attention to her, and that but once the
Christmas before, was Clyde Griffiths, the nephew of the wealthy Samuel
Griffiths, of Lycurgus, and the manager of the department in which
Roberta worked.

But this in itself, as Mason and the Aldens themselves at once felt,
was something which assuredly could not be taken to mean that the
nephew of so great a man could be accused of the murder of Roberta.
Wealth! Position! Indeed, in the face of such an accusation Mason was
inclined to pause and consider. For the social difference between this
man and this girl from his point of view seemed great. At that, it
might be so. Why not? Was it not likely that a youth of such a secure
position would possibly more than another, since she was so attractive
as Heit had said, be the one to be paying casual and secret attention
to a girl like Roberta? Did she not work in his uncle's factory? And
was she not poor? Besides, as Fred Heit had already explained, whoever
it was that this girl was with at the time of her death, she had not
hesitated to cohabit with him before marriage. And was that not part
and parcel of a rich and sophisticated youth's attitude toward a poor
girl? By reason of his own early buffetings at the mood of chance and
established prosperity the idea appealed to him intensely. The wretched
rich! The indifferent rich! And here were her mother and father
obviously believing most firmly in her innocence and virtue.

Further questioning of Mrs. Alden only brought out the fact that she
had never seen this particular youth, and had never even heard of any
other. The only additional data that either she or her husband could
furnish was that during her last home-coming of a month Roberta had
not been feeling at all well--drooped about the house and rested a
good deal. Also that she had written a number of letters which she had
given to the postman or placed in the delivery box at the road-crossing
below. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Alden knew to whom they were addressed,
although the postman would be likely to know, as Mason quickly thought.
Also, during this period, she had been busy making some dresses, at
least four. And during the latter part of her stay, she had been the
recipient of a number of telephone calls--from a certain Mr. Baker, as
Titus had heard Mr. Wilcox say. Also, on departing, she had taken only
such baggage as she had brought with her--her small trunk and her bag.
The trunk she had checked herself at the station, but just where, other
than Lycurgus, Titus could not say.

But now, suddenly, since he was attaching considerable importance to
the name Baker, there popped into Mason's mind: "Clifford Golden! Carl
Graham! Clyde Griffiths!" and at once the identity of the initials as
well as the related euphony of the names gave him pause. An astounding
coincidence truly, if this same Clyde Griffiths had nothing to do with
this crime! Immediately he was anxious to go direct to the mailman and
question him.

But since Titus Alden was important not only as a witness in
identifying Roberta's body and the contents of the suitcase left by her
at Gun Lodge but also to persuade the postman to talk freely, he now
asked him to dress and accompany him, assuring him that he would allow
him to return to-morrow.

After cautioning Mrs. Alden to talk to no one in regard to this, he now
proceeded to the post office to question the mailman. That individual
when found, recalled, upon inquiry, and in the presence of Titus who
stood like a galvanized corpse by the side of the district attorney,
that not only had there been a few letters--no less than twelve or
fifteen even--handed him by Roberta during her recent stay here, but
that all of them had been addressed to some one in Lycurgus by the name
of--let him see--Clyde Griffiths--no less--care of General Delivery
there. Forthwith, the district attorney proceeded with him to a local
notary's office where a deposition was made, after which he called
his office, and learning that Roberta's body had been brought to
Bridgeburg, he drove there with as much speed as he could attain. And
once there and in the presence of the body along with Titus, Burton
Burleigh, Heit and Earl Newcomb, he was able to decide for himself,
even while Titus, half demented, gazed upon the features of his child,
first that she truly was Roberta Alden and next as to whether he
considered her of the type who would wantonly yield herself to such
a liaison as the registration at Grass Lake seemed to indicate. He
decided he did not. This was a case of sly, evil seduction as well as
murder. Oh, the scoundrel! And still at large. Almost the political
value of all this was obscured by an angry social resentfulness against
men of means in general.

But this particular contact with the dead, made at ten o'clock at
night in the receiving parlors of the Lutz Brothers, Undertakers, and
with Titus Alden falling on his knees by the side of his daughter and
emotionally carrying her small, cold hands to his lips while he gazed
feverishly and protestingly upon her waxy face, framed by her long
brown hair, was scarcely such as to promise an unbiased or even legal
opinion. The eyes of all those present were wet with tears.

And now Titus Alden injected a new and most dramatic note into the
situation. For while the Lutz Brothers, with three of their friends
who kept an automobile shop next door, Everett Beeker, the present
representative of the Bridgeburg _Republican_, and Sam Tacksun, the
editor and publisher of the _Democrat_, awesomely gazed over or between
the heads of each other from without a side door which gave into
the Lutzs' garage, he suddenly rose and moving wildly toward Mason,
exclaimed: "I want you to find the scoundrel who did this, Mr. District
Attorney. I want him to be made to suffer as this pure, good girl
has been made to suffer. She's been murdered--that's all. No one but
a murderer would take a girl out on a lake like that and strike her
as any one can see she has been struck." He gestured toward his dead
child. "I have no money to help prosecute a scoundrel like that. But I
will work. I will sell my farm."

His voice broke and seemingly he was in danger of falling as he turned
toward Roberta again. And now, Orville Mason, swept into this father's
stricken and yet retaliatory mood, pressed forward to exclaim: "Come
away, Mr. Alden. We know this is your daughter. I swear all you
gentlemen as witnesses to this identification. And if it shall be
proved that this little girl of yours was murdered, as it now seems,
I promise you, Mr. Alden, faithfully and dutifully as the district
attorney of this county, that no time or money or energy on my part
will be spared to track down this scoundrel and hale him before the
proper authorities! And if the justice of Cataraqui County is what I
think it is, you can leave him to any jury which our local court will
summon. And you won't need to sell your farm, either."

Mr. Mason, because of his deep, if easily aroused, emotion, as well as
the presence of the thrilled audience, was in his most forceful as well
as his very best oratorical mood.

And one of the Lutz Brothers--Ed--the recipient of all of the county
coroner's business--was moved to exclaim: "That's the ticket, Orville.
You're the kind of a district attorney we like." And Everett Beeker now
called out: "Go to it, Mr. Mason. We're with you to a man when it comes
to that." And Fred Heit, as well as his assistant, touched by Mason's
dramatic stand, his very picturesque and even heroic appearance at the
moment, now crowded closer, Heit to take his friend by the hand, Earl
to exclaim: "More power to you, Mr. Mason. We'll do all we can, you
bet. And don't forget that bag that she left at Gun Lodge is over at
your office. I gave it to Burton two hours ago."

"That's right, too. I was almost forgetting that," exclaimed Mason,
most calmly and practically at the moment, the previous burst of
oratory and emotion having by now been somehow merged in his own
mind with the exceptional burst of approval which up to this hour he
had never experienced in any case with which previously he had been
identified.




                               CHAPTER V


As he proceeded to his office, accompanied by Alden and the officials
in this case, his thought was running on the motive of this heinous
crime--the motive. And because of his youthful sexual deprivations,
his mind now tended continually to dwell on that. And meditating on
the beauty and charm of Roberta, contrasted with her poverty and her
strictly moral and religious upbringing, he was convinced that in all
likelihood this man or boy, whoever he was, had seduced her and then
later, finding himself growing tired of her, had finally chosen this
way to get rid of her--this deceitful, alleged marriage trip to the
lake. And at once he conceived an enormous personal hate for the man.
The wretched rich! The idle rich! The wastrel and evil rich--a scion or
representative of whom this young Clyde Griffiths was. If he could but
catch him.

At the same time it now suddenly occurred to him that because of the
peculiar circumstances attending this case--this girl cohabiting with
this man in this way--she might be pregnant. And at once this suspicion
was sufficient, not only to make him sexually curious in regard to all
the details of the life and courtship that had led to this--but also
very anxious to substantiate for himself whether his suspicions were
true. Immediately he began to think of a suitable doctor to perform an
autopsy--if not here, then in Utica or Albany--also of communicating to
Heit his suspicions in the connection, and of having this, as well as
the import of the blows upon her face, determined.

But in regard to the bag and its contents, which was the immediate
matter before him, he was fortunate in finding one additional bit
of evidence of the greatest importance. For, apart from the dresses
and hats made by Roberta, her lingerie, a pair of red silk garters
purchased at Braunstein's in Lycurgus and still in their original
box, there was the toilet set presented by Clyde to her the Christmas
before. And with it the small, plain white card, held in place by
a portion of the gray silk lining of the case, on which Clyde had
written: "For Bert from Clyde--Merry Xmas." But no family name. And
the writing a hurried scrawl, since it had been written at a time when
Clyde was most anxious to be elsewhere than with her.

At once it occurred to Mason--how odd that the presence of this
toilet set in this bag, together with the card, should not have been
known to the slayer. But if it were, and he had not removed the card,
could it be possible that this same Clyde was the slayer? Would a
man contemplating murder fail to see a card such as this, with his
own handwriting on it? What sort of a plotter and killer would that
be? Immediately afterward he thought: Supposing the presence of this
card could be concealed until the day of the trial and then suddenly
produced, assuming the criminal denied any intimacy with the girl, or
having given her any toilet set? And for the present he took the card
and put it in his pocket, but not before Earl Newcomb, looking at it
carefully, had observed: "I'm not positive, Mr. Mason, but that looks
to me like the writing on the register up at Big Bittern." And at once
Mason replied: "Well, it won't take long to establish the fact."

He then signaled Heit to follow him into an adjoining chamber, where
once alone with him, free from the observation and hearing of the
others, he began: "Well, Fred, you see it was just as you thought. She
did know who she was going with." (He was referring to his own advice
over the telephone from Biltz that Mrs. Alden had provided him with
definite information as to the criminal.) "But you couldn't guess in a
thousand years unless I told you." He leaned over and looked at Heit
shrewdly.

"I don't doubt it, Orville. I haven't the slightest idea."

"Well, you know of Griffiths & Company, of Lycurgus?"

"Not the collar people?"

"Yes, the collar people."

"Not the son." Fred Heit's eyes opened wider than they had in years.
His wide, brown hand grasped the end of his beard.

"No, not the son. A nephew!"

"Nephew! Of Samuel Griffiths? Not truly!" The old,
moral-religious-politic-commercial coroner stroked his beard again and
stared.

"The fact seems to point that way, Fred, now at least. I'm going down
there yet to-night, though, and I hope to know a lot more to-morrow.
But this Alden girl--they're the poorest kind of farm people, you
know--worked for Griffiths & Company in Lycurgus and this nephew, Clyde
Griffiths, as I understand it, is in charge of the department in which
she worked."

"Tst! Tst! Tst!" interjected the coroner.

"She was home for a month--_sick_" (he emphasized the word) "just
before she went on this trip last Tuesday. And during that time she
wrote him at least ten letters, and maybe more. I got that from the
rural delivery man. I have his affidavit here." He tapped his coat.
"All addressed to Clyde Griffiths in Lycurgus. I even have his house
number. And the name of the family with whom she lived. I telephoned
down there from Biltz. I'm going to take the old man with me to-night
in case anything comes up that he might know about."

"Yes, yes, Orville. I understand. I see. But a Griffiths!" And once
more he clucked with his tongue.

"But what I want to talk to you about is the inquest," now went on
Mason quickly and sharply. "You know I've been thinking that it
couldn't have been just because he didn't want to marry her that he
wanted to kill her. That doesn't seem reasonable to me," and he added
the majority of the thoughts that had caused him to conclude that
Roberta was pregnant. And at once Heit agreed with him.

"Well, then that means an autopsy," Mason resumed. "As well as medical
opinion as to the nature of those wounds. We'll have to know beyond a
shadow of a doubt, Fred, and before that body is taken away from here,
whether that girl was killed before she was thrown out of that boat,
or just stunned and then thrown out, or the boat upset. That's very
vital to the case, as you know. We'll never be able to do anything
unless we're positive about those things. But what about the medical
men around here? Do you think any of them will be able to do all these
things in a shipshape way so that what they say will hold water in
court?"

Mason was dubious. Already he was building his case.

"Well, as to that, Orville," Heit replied slowly, "I can't say exactly.
You'd be a better judge, maybe, than I would. I've already asked Dr.
Mitchell to step over to-morrow and take a look at her. Also Betts.
But if there's any other doctor you'd rather have--Bavo or Lincoln of
Coldwater--how about Bavo?"

"I'd rather have Webster, of Utica," went on Mason, "or Beemis, or
both. Four or five opinions in a case like this won't be any too many."

And Heit, sensing the importance of the great responsibility now
resting on him, added: "Well, I guess you're right, Orville. Maybe four
or five would be better than one or two. That means, though, that the
inquest will have to be postponed for a day or two more, till we get
these men here."

"Quite right! Quite right," went on Mason, "but that will be a good
thing, too, as long as I'm going down to Lycurgus to-night to see what
I can find out. You never can tell. I may catch up with him. I hope
so, anyhow, or if not that, then I may come upon something that'll
throw some extra light on this. For this is going to be a big thing,
Fred. I can see that--the most difficult case that ever came my way, or
yours, either,--and we can't be too careful as to how we move from now
on. He's likely to be rich, you see, and if he is he'll fight. Besides
there's that family down there to back him up."

He ran a nervous hand through his shock of hair, then added: "Well,
that's all right too. The next thing to do is to get Beemis and Webster
of Utica--better wire them to-night, eh, or call them up. And Sprull of
Albany, and then, to keep peace in the family around here, perhaps we'd
better have Lincoln and Betts over here. And maybe Bavo." He permitted
himself the faintest shadow of a smile. "In the meantime, I'll be going
along, Fred. Arrange to have them come up Monday or Tuesday, instead
of to-morrow. I expect to be back by then and if so I can be with
you. If you can, better get 'em up here, Monday--see--the quicker the
better--and we'll see what we know by then."

He went to a drawer to secure some extra writs. And then into the outer
room to explain to Alden the trip that was before him. And to have
Burleigh call up his wife, to whom he explained the nature of his work
and haste and that he might not be back before Monday.

And all the way down to Utica, which took three hours, as well as a
wait of one hour before a train for Lycurgus could be secured, and
an additional hour and twenty minutes on that train, which set them
down at about seven, Orville Mason was busy extracting from the broken
and gloomy Titus, as best he could, excerpts from his own as well as
Roberta's humble past--her generosity, loyalty, virtue, sweetness of
heart, and the places and conditions under which previously she had
worked, and what she had received, and what she had done with the
money--a humble story which he was quite able to appreciate.

Arriving at Lycurgus with Titus by his side, he made his way as quickly
as possible to the Lycurgus House, where he took a room for the father
in order that he might rest. And after that to the office of the local
district attorney, from whom he must obtain authority to proceed, as
well as an officer who would execute his will for him here. And then
being supplied with a stalwart detective in plain clothes, he proceeded
to Clyde's room in Taylor Street, hoping against hope that he might
find him there. But Mrs. Peyton appearing and announcing that Clyde
lived there but that at present he was absent (having gone the Tuesday
before to visit friends at Twelfth Lake, she believed), he was rather
painfully compelled to announce, first, that he was the district
attorney of Cataraqui County, and, next, that because of certain
suspicious circumstances in connection with the drowning of a girl
in Big Bittern, with whom they had reason to believe that Clyde was
at the time, they would now be compelled to have access to his room,
a statement which so astonished Mrs. Peyton that she fell back, an
expression of mixed amazement, horror, and unbelief overspreading her
features.

"Not Mr. Clyde Griffiths! Oh, how ridiculous! Why, he's the nephew of
Mr. Samuel Griffiths and very well known here. I'm sure they can tell
you all about him at their residence, if you must know. But anything
like--oh, impossible!" And she looked at both Mason and the local
detective who was already displaying his official badge, as though she
doubted both their honesty and authority.

At the same time, the detective, being all too familiar with such
circumstances, had already placed himself beyond Mrs. Peyton at the
foot of the stairs leading to the floor above. And Mason now drew from
his pocket a writ of search, which he had been careful to secure.

"I am sorry, Madam, but I am compelled to ask you to show us his room.
This is a search warrant and this officer is here at my direction."
And at once struck by the futility of contending with the law, she now
nervously indicated Clyde's room, feeling still that some insane and
most unfair and insulting mistake was being made.

But the two having proceeded to Clyde's room, they began to look here
and there. At once both noted one small and not very strong trunk,
locked and standing in one corner, which Mr. Faunce, the detective,
immediately began to lift to decide upon its weight and strength, while
Mason began to examine each particular thing in the room--the contents
of all drawers and boxes, as well as the pockets of all clothes. And
in the chiffonier drawers, along with some discarded underwear and
shirts and a few old invitations from the Trumbulls, Starks, Griffiths,
and Harriets, he now found a memorandum sheet which Clyde had carried
home from his desk and on which he had written: "Wednesday, Feb. 20th,
dinner at Starks"--and below that, "Friday, 22nd, Trumbulls"--and this
handwriting Mason at once compared with that on the card in his pocket,
and being convinced by the similarity that he was in the room of the
right man, he took the invitations and then looked toward the trunk
which the detective was now contemplating.

"What about this, chief? Will you take it away or open it here?"

"I think," said Mason solemnly, "we'd better open that right here,
Faunce. I'll send for it afterwards, but I want to see what's in it
now." And at once the detective extracted from his pocket a heavy
chisel, while he began looking around for a hammer.

"It isn't very strong," he said, "I think I can kick it open if you say
so."

At this point, Mrs. Peyton, most astounded by these developments, and
anxious to avoid any such rough procedure, exclaimed: "You can have a
hammer if you wish, but why not wait and send for a key man? Why, I
never heard of such a thing in all my life."

However, the detective having secured the hammer and jarred the lock
loose, there lay revealed in a small top crate various unimportant
odds and ends of Clyde's wardrobe--socks, collars, ties, a muffler,
suspenders, a discarded sweater, a pair of not too good high-top
winter shoes, a cigarette holder, a red lacquer ash tray, and a pair
of skates. But in addition among these, in the corner in one compact
bundle, the final fifteen letters of Roberta, written him from Biltz,
together with a small picture of herself given him the year before,
as well as another small bundle consisting of all the notes and
invitations written him by Sondra up to the time she had departed
for Pine Point. The letters written from there Clyde had taken with
him--laid next his heart. And, even more incriminating, a third bundle,
consisting of eleven letters from his mother, the first two addressed
to Harry Tenet, care of general delivery, Chicago--a most suspicious
circumstance on the surface--whereas the others of the bundle were
addressed to Clyde Griffiths, not only care of the Union League,
Chicago, but to Lycurgus.

Without waiting further to see what else the trunk might contain,
the district attorney began opening these and reading--first three
from Roberta, after which the reason she had gone to Biltz was made
perfectly plain--then the three first letters from his mother, on
most pathetically commonplace stationery, as he could see, hinting at
the folly of the life as well as the nature of the accident that had
driven him from Kansas City, and at the same time advising him most
solicitously and tenderly as to the proper path for his feet in the
future, the general effect of which was to convey to a man of Mason's
repressed temperament and limited social experience the impression that
from the very beginning this individual had been of a loose, wayward
and errant character.

At the same time, and to his surprise, he now learned that except for
what his rich uncle might have done for him here, Clyde was obviously
of a poor, as well as highly religious, branch of the Griffiths family,
and while ordinarily this might have influenced him in Clyde's favor
a little, still now, in view of the notes of Sondra, as well as the
pathetic letters of Roberta and his mother's reference to some earlier
crime in Kansas City, he was convinced that not only was Clyde of such
a disposition as could plot such a crime but also one who could execute
it in cold blood. That crime in Kansas City. He must wire the district
attorney there for particulars.

And with this thought in mind, he now scanned more briefly but none
the less sharply and critically the various notes or invitations or
love messages from Sondra, all on heavily perfumed and monogrammed
stationery, which grew more and more friendly and intimate as the
correspondence progressed, until toward the last they invariably began:
"Clydie-Mydie," or "Sweetest Black Eyes," or "My sweetest boy," and
were signed "Sonda," or "Your own Sondra." And some of them dated so
recently as May 10th, May 15th, May 26th, or up to the very time at
which, as he instantly noted, Roberta's most doleful letters began to
arrive.

It was all so plain, now. One secretly betrayed girl in the background
while he had the effrontery to ingratiate himself into the affections
of another, this time obviously one of much higher social position here.

Although fascinated and staggered by this interesting development,
he at the same time realized that this was no hour in which to sit
meditating. Far from it. This trunk must be transferred at once to his
hotel. Later he must go forth to find out, if he could, exactly where
this individual was, and arrange for his capture. And while he ordered
the detective to call up the police department and arrange for the
transfer of the trunk to his room at the Lycurgus House, he hurried
next to the residence of Samuel Griffiths, only to learn that no member
of the family was then in the city. They were all at Greenwood Lake.
But a telephone message to that place brought the information that in
so far as they knew, this same Clyde Griffiths, their nephew, was at
the Cranston lodge on Twelfth Lake, near Sharon, adjoining the Finchley
lodge. The name Finchley, together with the town of Sharon, being
already identified in Mason's mind with Clyde, he at once decided that
if he were still anywhere in this region, he would be there--at the
summer home perhaps of this girl who had written him the various notes
and invitations he had seen--this Sondra Finchley. Also had not the
captain of the "Cygnus" declared that he had seen the youth who had
come down from Three Mile Bay debark there? Eureka! He had him!

And at once, after meditating sharply on the wisdom of his course,
he decided to proceed to Sharon and Pine Point himself. But in the
meantime being furnished with an accurate description of Clyde, he now
furnished this as well as the fact that he was wanted for murder, not
only to the district attorney and the chief of police of Lycurgus, but
to Newton Slack, the sheriff at Bridgeburg, as well as to Heit and his
own assistant, urging all three to proceed at once to Sharon, where he
would meet them.

At the same time, speaking as though for Mrs. Peyton, he now called
upon the long distance telephone the Cranston lodge at Pine Point, and
getting the butler on the wire, inquired whether Mr. Clyde Griffiths
chanced to be there. "Yes, sir, he is, sir, but he's not here now, sir.
I think he's on a camping party farther up the lake, sir. Any message,
sir?" And in response to further inquiries, he replied that he could
not say exactly--a party had gone, presumably, to Bear Lake, some
thirty miles farther up, but when it would return he could not say--not
likely before a day or two. But distinctly this same Clyde was with
that party.

And at once Mason recalled the sheriff at Bridgeburg, instructing him
to take four or five deputies with him so that the searching party
might divide at Sharon and seize this same Clyde wherever he chanced
to be. And throw him in jail at Bridgeburg, where he could explain,
with all due process of law, the startling circumstances that thus far
seemed to unescapably point to him as the murderer of Roberta Alden.




                              CHAPTER VI


In the interim the mental state of Clyde since that hour when, the
water closing over Roberta, he had made his way to the shore, and then,
after changing his clothes, had subsequently arrived at Sharon and the
lakeside lodge of the Cranstons, was almost one of complete mental
derangement, mainly caused by fear and confusion in his own mind as to
whether he did or did not bring about her untimely end. At the same
time at the lakeside the realization that if by any chance he were
then and there found, skulking south rather than returning north to
the inn at Big Bittern to report this seeming accident, there would be
sufficient hardness and cruelty to the look of it all to convince any
one that a charge of murder should be made against him, had fiercely
tortured him. For, as he now saw it, he really was not guilty--was he,
since at the last moment he had experienced that change of heart?

But who was going to believe that now, since he did not go back to
explain? And it would never do to go back now! For if Sondra should
hear that he had been on this lake with this factory girl--that he had
registered with her as husband and wife ... God!

And then trying to explain to his uncle afterwards, or his cold,
hard cousin--or all those smart, cynical Lycurgus people! No! No!
Having gone so far he must go on. Disaster--if not death--lay in the
opposite direction. He would have to make the best of this terrible
situation--make the best of this plan that had ended so strangely and
somewhat exculpatorily for him.

And yet these woods! This approaching night. The eerie loneliness and
danger of it all now. How now to do, what to say, if met by any one. He
was so confused--mentally and nervously sick. The crackle of a twig and
he leaped forward as a hare.

And in this state, it was that after having recovered his bag and
changed his clothes, wringing out his wet suit and attempting to dry
it, then packing it in his bag under some dry twigs and pine-needles
and burying the tripod beneath a rotting log, that he plunged into
the woods after night had fallen. Yet meditating more and more on his
very strange and perilous position. For supposing, just as he had
unintentionally struck at her, and they had fallen into the water and
she uttered those piercing and appealing cries, there had been some
one on the shore--some one watching--one of those strong, hardy men
whom he had seen loitering about during the day and who might even at
this moment be sounding a local alarm that would bring a score of such
men to the work of hunting for him this very night! A man hunt! And
they would take him back and no one would ever believe that he had not
intentionally struck her! They might even lynch him before he could
so much as secure a fair trial. It was possible. It had been done. A
rope around his neck. Or shot down in these woods, maybe. And without
an opportunity to explain how it had all come about--how harried and
tortured he had been by her for so long. They would never understand
that.

And so thinking he hurried faster and faster--as fast as strong and
serried and brambly young firs and dead branches that cracked most
ominously at times would permit, thinking always as he went that the
road to Three Mile Bay must be to his right hand, the moon to his left
when it should rise.

But, God, what was that?

Oh, that terrible sound!

Like a whimpering, screeching spirit in this dark!

There!

What was it?

He dropped his bag and in a cold sweat sunk down, crouching behind a
tall, thick tree, rigid and motionless with fear.

That sound!

But only a screech-owl! He had heard it several weeks before at the
Cranston lodge. But here! In this wood! This dark! He must be getting
on and out of here. There was no doubt of that. He must not be thinking
such horrible, fearful thoughts, or he would not be able to keep up his
strength or courage at all.

But that look in the eyes of Roberta! That last appealing look! God! He
could not keep from seeing it! Her mournful, terrible screams! Could he
not cease from hearing them--until he got out of here anyhow?

Had she understood, when he struck her, that it was not intentional--a
mere gesture of anger and protest? Did she know that _now_, wherever
she was--in the bottom of the lake--or here in the dark of these woods
beside him, mayhap? Ghosts! Hers. But he must get out of this--out of
this! He must--and yet the safety of these woods, too. He must not be
too brash in stepping out into any road, either. Pedestrians! People
in search of him, maybe! But did people really live after death? Were
there ghosts? And did they know the truth? Then she must know--but how
he plotted before that, too. And what would she think of that! And was
she here now reproachfully and gloomily pursuing him with mistaken
accusations, as true as it might be that he had intended to kill her
at first? He had! He had! And that was the great sin, of course. Even
though he had not killed her, yet something had done it for him! That
was true.

But ghosts--God--spirits that might pursue you after they were dead,
seeking to expose and punish you--seeking to set people on your track,
maybe! Who could tell? His mother had confessed to him and Frank and
Esta and Julia that she believed in ghosts.

And then at last the moon, after three such hours of stumbling,
listening, waiting, perspiring, trembling. No one in sight now, thank
God! And the stars overhead--bright and yet soft, as at Pine Point
where Sondra was. If she could see him now, slipping away from Roberta
dead in that lake, his own hat upon the waters there! If she could have
heard Roberta's cries! How strange, that never, never, never would
he be able to tell her that because of her, her beauty, his passion
for her and all that she had come to mean to him, he had been able to
... to ... to ... well, _attempt_ this terrible thing--kill a girl
whom once he had loved. And all his life he would have this with him,
now,--this thought! He would never be able to shake it off--never,
never, never. And he had not thought of that, before. It was a terrible
thing in its way, just that, wasn't it?

But then suddenly there in the dark, at about eleven o'clock, as he
afterwards guessed, the water having stopped his watch, and after he
had reached the highroad to the west--and walked a mile or two,--those
three men, quick, like ghosts coming out of the shadow of the woods.
He thought at first that having seen him at the moment he had struck
Roberta or the moment afterward, they had now come to take him. The
sweating horror of that moment! And that boy who had held up the
light the better to see his face. And no doubt he had evinced most
suspicious fear and perturbation, since at the moment he was most
deeply brooding on all that had happened, terrorized really by the
thought that somehow, in some way, he had left some clue that might
lead directly to him. And he did jump back, feeling that these were men
sent to seize him. But at that moment, the foremost, a tall, bony man,
without appearing to be more than amused at his obvious cowardice, had
called, "Howdy, stranger!" while the youngest, without appearing to be
suspicious at all, had stepped forward and then turned up the light.
And it was then that he had begun to understand that they were just
countrymen or guides--not a posse in pursuit of him--and that if he
were calm and civil they would have no least suspicion that he was the
murderer that he was.

But afterward he had said to himself--"But they will remember me,
walking along this lonely road at this hour with this bag, won't they?"
And so at once he had decided that he must hurry--hurry--and not be
seen by any others anywhere there.

Then, hours later and just as the moon was lowering toward the west,
a sickly yellow pallor overspreading the woods and making the night
even more wretched and wearisome, he had come to Three Mile Bay
itself--a small collection of native and summer cottages nestling at
the northernmost end of what was known as the Indian Chain. And in
it, as he could see from a bend in the road, a few pale lights still
twinkling. Stores. Houses. Street lamps. But all dim in the pale
light--so dim and eerie to him. One thing was plain--at this hour and
dressed as he was and with his bag in hand, he could not enter there.
That would be to fix curiosity as well as suspicion on him, assuredly,
if any one was still about. And as the launch that ran between this
place and Sharon, from whence he would proceed to Pine Point, did not
leave until eight-thirty, he must hide away in the meantime and make
himself as presentable as possible.

And accordingly re-entering a thicket of pines that descended to the
very borders of the town, there to wait until morning, being able to
tell by a small clock-face which showed upon the sides of a small
church tower, when the hour for emerging had arrived. But, in the
interim debating,--"Was it wise so to do?" For who might not be here
to wait for him? Those three men--or some one else who might have
seen?--Or an officer, notified from somewhere else. Yet deciding after
a time that it was best to go just the same. For to stalk along in the
woods west of this lake--and by night rather than day--seeing that by
day he might be seen, and when by taking this boat he could reach in
an hour and a half--or two hours at the most--the Cranston lodge at
Sharon, whereas by walking he would not arrive until to-morrow,--was
not that unwise, more dangerous? Besides, he had promised Sondra and
Bertine that he would be there Tuesday. And here it was Friday! Again,
by to-morrow, might not a hue and cry be on--his description sent
here and there--whereas this morning--well, how could Roberta have
been found as yet? No, no. Better this way. For who knew him here--or
could identify him as yet with either Carl Graham or Clifford Golden.
Best go this way,--speedily, before anything else in connection with
her developed. Yes, yes. And finally, the clock-hands pointing to
eight-ten, making his way out, his heart beating heavily as he did so.

At the foot of this street was the launch which steamed from here to
Sharon. And as he loitered he observed the bus from Raquette Lake
approaching. It now occurred to him, if he encountered any one he knew
on the steamer dock or boat, could he not say that he was fresh from
Raquette Lake, where Sondra, as well as Bertine, had many friends,
or in case they themselves came down on the boat, that he had been
there the day before. What matter whose name or lodge he mentioned--an
invented one, if need be.

And so, at last, making his way to the boat and boarding it. And later
at Sharon, leaving it again and without, as he thought, appearing to
attract any particular attention at either end. For, although there
were some eleven passengers, all strangers to him, still no one other
than a young country girl in a blue dress and a white straw hat, whom
he guessed to be from this vicinity, appeared to pay any particular
attention to him. And her glances were admiring rather than otherwise,
although sufficient, because of his keen desire for secrecy, to cause
him to retire to the rear of the boat, whereas the others appeared to
prefer the forward deck. And once at Sharon, knowing that the majority
were making for the railway station to catch the first morning train
down, he followed briskly in their wake, only to turn into the nearest
lunch-room in order to break the trail, as he hoped. For although he
had walked the long distance from Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay, and
previously had rowed all afternoon, and merely made a pretense of
eating the lunch which Roberta had prepared at Grass Lake, still even
now he was not hungry. Then seeing a few passengers approaching from
the station, yet none whom he knew, he joined these again as though
just coming to the inn and launch from the train.

For at this time there had come to him the thought that this south
train from Albany, as well as Utica being due here at this hour, it
was only natural that he should seem to come on that. Pretending
first, therefore, to be going to the station, yet stopping en route to
telephone Bertine and Sondra that he was here, and being assured that
a car rather than a launch would be sent for him, he explained that
he would be waiting on the west veranda of the inn. En route also he
stopped at a news stand for a morning paper, although he knew there
could be nothing in it as yet. And he had barely crossed to the veranda
of the inn and seated himself before the Cranston car approached.

And in response to the greeting of the Cranston family chauffeur,
whom he knew well, and who smiled most welcomingly, he was now able
to achieve a seemingly easy and genial smile, though still inwardly
troubled by his great dread. For no doubt by now, as he persistently
argued with himself, the three men whom he had met had reached Big
Bittern. And by now both Roberta and he must assuredly have been
missed, and maybe, who knows, the upturned boat with his hat and her
veil discovered! If so, might they not have already reported that they
had seen such a man as himself, carrying a bag, and making his way
to the south in the night? And, if so, would not that, regardless of
whether the body was found or not, cause them to become dubious as to
whether a double drowning had occurred? And supposing by some strange
chance her body should come to the surface? Then what? And might there
not be a mark left by that hard blow he had given her? If so, would
they not suspect murder, and his body not coming up and those men
describing the man they had seen, would not Clifford Golden or Carl
Graham be suspected of murder?

But neither Clifford Golden nor Carl Graham were Clyde Griffiths by
any means. And they could not possibly identify Clyde Griffiths--with
either Clifford Golden or Carl Graham. For had he not taken every
precaution, even searching through Roberta's bag and purse there at
Grass Lake while at his request after breakfast she had gone back to
see about the lunch? Had he not? True, he had found those two letters
from that girl, Theresa Bouser, addressed to Roberta at Biltz, and he
had destroyed them before ever leaving for Gun Lodge. And as for that
toilet set in its original case, with the label "Whitely-Lycurgus" on
it, while it was true that he had been compelled to leave that, still
might not any one--Mrs. Clifford Golden, or Mrs. Carl Graham--have
bought that in Whitely's, and so without the possibility of its being
traced to him? Assuredly. And as for her clothes, even assuming that
they did go to prove her identity, would it not be assumed, by her
parents as well as others, that she had gone on this trip with a
strange man by the name of Golden or Graham, and would they not want
that hushed up without further ado? At any rate, he would hope for the
best--keep up his nerve, put on a strong, pleasant, cheerful front
here, so that no one would think of him as the one, since he had not
actually killed her, anyhow.

Here he was in this fine car. And Sondra, as well as Bertine, waiting
for him. He would have to say that he was just up from Albany--had
been on some errand over there for his uncle which had taken all of
his time since Tuesday. And while he should be blissfully happy with
Sondra, still here were all of those dreadful things of which now all
of the time he would be compelled to think. The danger that in some
inadvertent way he had not quite covered all the tracks that might lead
to him. And if he had not! Exposure! Arrest! Perhaps a hasty and unjust
conviction--punishment, even! Unless he was able to explain about
that accidental blow. The end of all his dreams in connection with
Sondra--Lycurgus--the great life that he had hoped for himself. But
could he explain as to that? Could he? God!




                              CHAPTER VII


From Friday morning until the following Tuesday noon, moving amid such
scenes as previously had so exhilarated and enthralled him, Clyde was
now compelled to suffer the most frightful fears and dreads. For,
although met by Sondra, as well as Bertine, at the door of the Cranston
lodge, and shown by them to the room he was to occupy, he could not
help but contrast every present delight here with the danger of his
immediate and complete destruction.

As he had entered, Sondra had poutingly whispered, so that Bertine
might not hear: "Baddie! Staying down there a whole week when you might
have been up here. And Sondra planning everything for you! You ought to
have a good spanking. I was going to call up to-day to see where you
were." Yet at the same time her eyes conveying the infatuation that now
dominated her.

And he, in spite of his troubled thoughts achieving a gay smile,--for
once in her presence even the terror of Roberta's death, his
own present danger appeared to dwindle. If only all went well,
now,--nothing were traced to him! A clear path! A marvelous future! Her
beauty! Her love! Her wealth. And yet, after being ushered to his room,
his bag having been carried in before him, at once becoming nervous as
to the suit. It was damp and wrinkled. He must hide it on one of the
upper shelves of a closet, maybe. And the moment he was alone and the
door locked, taking it out, wet and wrinkled, the mud of the shores of
Big Bittern still about the legs--yet deciding perhaps not--perhaps he
had better keep it locked in his bag until night when he could better
decide what to do. Yet tying up in a single bundle, in order to have
them laundered, other odds and ends he had worn that day. And, as he
did so, terribly, sickeningly conscious of the mystery and drama as
well as the pathos of his life--all he had contacted since his arrival
in the east, how little he had in his youth. How little he had now,
really. The spaciousness and grandeur of this room as contrasted with
the one he occupied in Lycurgus. The strangeness of his being here at
all after yesterday. The blue waters of this bright lake without as
contrasted with the darker ones of Big Bittern. And on the green-sward
that reached from this bright, strong, rambling house, with its wide
veranda and striped awnings to the shore of the lake itself, Stuart
Finchley and Violet Taylor, together with Frank Harriet and Wynette
Phant, in the smartest of sport clothes, playing tennis, while Bertine
and Harley Baggott lolled in the shade of a striped marquee swing.

And, he himself, after bathing and dressing, assuming a jocular air
although his nerves remained tense and his mood apprehensive. And then
descending to where Sondra and Burchard Taylor and Jill Trumbull were
laughing over some amusing experiences in connection with motor-boating
the day before. Jill Trumbull called to him as he came out: "Hello,
Clyde! Been playing hookey or what? I haven't seen you in I don't know
when." And he, after smiling wistfully at Sondra, craving as never
before her sympathy as well as her affection, drawing himself up on the
railing of the veranda and replying, as smoothly as he could: "Been
working over at Albany since Tuesday. Hot down there. It's certainly
fine to be up here to-day. Who's all up?" And Jill Trumbull, smiling:
"Oh, nearly every one, I guess. I saw Vanda over at the Randalls'
yesterday. And Scott wrote Bertine he was coming to the Point next
Tuesday. It looks to me as though no one was going over to Greenwood
much this year." And then a long and intense discussion as to why
Greenwood was no longer what it had been. And then Sondra exclaiming:
"That reminds me! I have to phone Bella to-day. She promised to come
up to that horse show over at Bristol week after next, sure." And then
more talk of horses and dogs. And Clyde, listening intently in his
anxiety to seem an integral part of it all, yet brooding on all that
so desperately concerned him. Those three men. Roberta. Maybe they
had found her body by now--who could tell, yet saying to himself--why
so fearsome? Was it likely that in that depth of water--fifty feet
maybe, for all he knew--that they would find her? Or that they could
ever identify him with Clifford Golden or Carl Graham? How could they?
Hadn't he really and truly covered his tracks except for those three
men? _Those three men!_ He shivered, as with cold, in spite of himself.

And then Sondra, sensing a note of depression about him. (She had
determined from his obvious lack of equipment on his first visit that
perhaps the want of money was at the bottom of his present mood,
and so proposed later this day to extract seventy-five dollars from
her purse and force that upon him in order that at no point where
petty expenditures should be required, should he feel the least bit
embarrassed during his stay this time.) And after a few moments,
thinking of the short golf course, with its variety of concealing
hazards for unseen kisses and embraces, she now jumped up with: "Who's
for a mixed foursome? Come on, Jill, Clyde, Burch! I'll bet Clyde and I
can turn in a lower card than you two can!"

"I'll take that!" exclaimed Burchard Taylor, rising and straightening
his yellow and blue striped sweater, "even if I didn't get in until
four this morning. How about you, Jilly? If you want to make that for
the lunches, Sonny, I'll take it."

And at once Clyde wincing and chilling, for he was thinking of the
miserable twenty-five dollars left him from all his recent ghastly
adventures. And a lunch for four here would cost not less than eight
or ten dollars! Perhaps more. At the same time, Sondra, noting his
expression, exclaimed: "That's a go!" and drawing near to Clyde tapped
him gently with her toe, exclaiming: "But I have to change. I'll be
right down. In the meantime, Clyde, I'll tell you what you do--go and
find Andrew and tell him to get the clubs, will you? We can go over
in your boat, can't we, Burchy?" And Clyde, hurrying to find Andrew,
and thinking of the probable cost of the lunch if he and Sondra were
defeated, but being caught up with by Sondra and seized by the arm.
"Wait a minute, honey, I'll be right back." Then dashing up the steps
to her room, and in a moment down again, a handful of bills she had
reserved shut tightly in her little fist: "Here, darling, quick!" she
whispered, taking hold of one of Clyde's coat pockets and putting the
money into it. "Ssh! Not a word, now! Hurry! It's to pay for the lunch
in case we lose, and some other things. I'll tell you afterwards. Oh,
but I do love you, baby boy!" And then, her warm, brown eyes fixed on
him for a moment in profound admiration, dashing up the stairs again,
from where she called: "Don't stand there, silly! Get the golf clubs!
The golf clubs!" And she was gone.

And Clyde, feeling his pocket and realizing that she had given him
much--plenty, no doubt, for all of his needs while here, as well as to
escape if need be. And exclaiming to himself: "Darling!" "Baby girl!"
His beautiful, warm, generous Sondra! She loved him so--truly loved
him. But if ever she should find out! Oh, God! And yet all for her, if
she only knew. All for her! And then finding Andrew and returning with
him carrying the bags.

And here was Sondra again, dancing down in a smart green knitted sports
costume. And Jill in a new cap and blouse which made her look like
a jockey, laughing at Burchard who was at the wheel of the boat. And
Sondra calling back to Bertine and Harley Baggott in the swing as she
was passing: "Hey, fellows! You won't come, eh?"

"Where?"

"Casino Golf Club."

"Oh, too far. See you after lunch on the beach, though."

And then Burchard shooting the boat out in the lake with a whir that
set it bounding like a porpoise--and Clyde gazing half in a dream, half
delight and hope and the other half a cloud of shadow and terror, with
arrest and death, maybe, stalking close behind. For in spite of all
his preliminary planning, he was beginning to feel that he had made a
mistake in openly coming out of the wood this morning. And yet had it
not been best, since the only alternative was that of remaining there
by day and coming out at night and following the shore road on foot to
Sharon? That would have required two or three days. And Sondra, anxious
as well as curious about the delay, might have telephoned to Lycurgus,
thereby raising some question in regard to him which might have proved
dangerous later might it not?

But here now, this bright day, with seemingly no cares of any kind, for
these others at least, however dark and bleak his own background might
be. And Sondra, all gayety because of his presence, now jumping up,
her bright scarf held aloft in one hand like a pennant, and exclaiming
foolishly and gayly: "Cleopatra sailing to meet--to meet--who was it
she was sailing to meet, anyhow?"

"Charlie Chaplin," volunteered Taylor, at the same time proceeding to
ricochet the boat as roughly and erratically as possible in order to
make her lose her balance.

"Oh, you silly!" returned Sondra, spreading her feet sufficiently apart
to maintain her equilibrium, and adding for the benefit of Burchard:
"No, you don't either, Burchy," then continuing: "Cleopatra sailing,
a-a-oh, I know, aquaplaning," and throwing her head back and her arms
wide, while the boat continued to jump and lurch like a frightened
horse.

"See if you can upset me now, Burchy," she called.

And Buchard, throwing the boat from side to side as swiftly as he
dared, with Jill Trumbull, anxious for her own safety, calling: "Oh,
say, what do you want to do? Drown us all?" at which Clyde winced and
blanched as though struck.

At once he felt sick, weak. He had never imagined that it was going to
be like this; that he was going to suffer so. He had imagined that
it was all going to be different. And yet here he was, blanching at
every accidental and unintended word! Why, if he were put to any real
test--an officer descending on him unexpectedly and asking him where he
had been yesterday and what he knew of Roberta's death--why, he would
mumble, shiver, not be able to talk, maybe--and so give his whole case
away wouldn't he! He must brace up, try to look natural, happy--mustn't
he--for this first day at least.

Fortunately in the speed and excitement of the play, the others seemed
not to notice the startling effect of the remark upon him, and he
managed by degrees to recover his outward composure. Then the launch
approached the Casino and Sondra, wishing to execute some last showy
stunt, jumped up and catching the rail pulled herself up, while the
boat rolled past only to reverse later. And Clyde, because of a happy
smile in his direction, was seized by an uncontrollable desire for
her--her love, sympathy, generosity, courage. And so now, to match her
smiles, he jumped up and after assisting Jill to the steps, quickly
climbed up after her, pretending a gayety and enthusiasm that was as
hollow inwardly as outwardly it was accurate.

"Gee! Some athlete you are!"

And then on the links a little later with her, and under her guidance
and direction, playing as successful a game as it was possible with
his little experience and as troubled as he was. And she, because of
the great delight of having him all to herself in shadowy hazards
where they might kiss and embrace, beginning to tell him of a proposed
camping trip which she, Frank Harriet, Wynette Phant, Burchard Taylor,
her brother Stuart, Grant Cranston and Bertine, as well as Harley
Baggott, Perly Hayes, Jill Trumbull and Violet Taylor, had been
organizing for a week, and which was to begin on the morrow afternoon,
with a motor trip thirty miles up the lake and then forty miles east
to a lake known as Bear, along which, with tents and equipment, they
were to canoe to certain beaches and scenes known only to Harley and
Frank. Different days, different points. The boys would kill squirrels
and catch fish for food. Also there would be moonlight trips to an inn
that could be reached by boat, so they said. A servant or two or three
from different homes was to accompany them, as well as a chaperon or
two. But, oh, the walks in the woods! The opportunities for love--canoe
trips on the lake--hours of uninterrupted love-making for at least a
week!

In spite of all that had occurred thus far to give him pause, he could
not help thinking that whatever happened, was it not best to go? How
wonderful to have her love him so! And what else here could he do? It
would take him out of this, would it not--farther and farther from the
scene of the--of the--accident and in case any one were looking for any
one who looked like him, for instance--well, he would not be around
where he could be seen and commented upon. _Those three men._

Yet, as it now instantly occurred to him, under no circumstances must
he leave here without first finding out as definitely as possible
whether any one was as yet suspected. And once at the Casino, and for
the moment left alone, he learned on inquiring at the news stand that
there would be no Albany, Utica, or any local afternoon paper here
until seven or seven-thirty. He must wait until then to know.

And so although after the lunch there was swimming and dancing, then a
return to the Cranstons with Harley Baggott and Bertine--Sondra going
to Pine Point, with an agreement to meet him afterwards at the Harriets
for dinner--still his mind was on the business of getting these papers
at the first possible opportunity. Yet unless, as he now saw, he was so
fortunate as to be able to stop on his way from the Cranstons' to the
Harriets' and so obtain one or all, he must manage to come over to this
Casino in the morning before leaving for Bear Lake. He must have them.
He must know what, if anything, was either being said or done so far in
regard to that drowned couple.

       *       *       *       *       *

But on his way to Harriets' he was not able to get the papers. They
had not come. And none at the Harriets' either, when he first arrived.
Yet sitting on the veranda about a half hour later, talking with the
others although brooding as to all this, Sondra herself appeared and
said: "Oh, say, people! I've got something to tell you. Two people
were drowned this morning or yesterday up at Big Bittern, so Blanche
Locke was telling me just now over the phone. She's up at Three Mile
Bay to-day and she says they've found the body of the girl but not the
man yet. They were drowned in the south part of the lake somewhere, she
said."

At once Clyde sat up, rigid and white, his lips a bloodless line, his
eyes fixed not on anything here but rather the distant scene at Big
Bittern---the tall pines, the dark water closing over Roberta. Then
they had found her body. And now would they believe that his body was
down there, too, as he had planned? But, listen! He must hear in spite
of his dizziness.

"Gee, that's tough!" observed Burchard Taylor, stopping his strumming
on a mandolin. "Anybody we know?"

"She says she didn't hear yet."

"I never did like that lake," put in Frank Harriet. "It's too lonely.
Dad and I and Mr. Randall were up there fishing last summer, but we
didn't stay long. It's too gloomy."

"We were up there three weeks ago--don't you remember, Sondra?" added
Harley Baggott. "You didn't care for it."

"Yes, I remember," replied Sondra. "A dreadfully lonely place. I can't
imagine any one wanting to go up there for anything."

"Well, I only hope it isn't any one we know from around here," added
Burchard, thoughtfully. "It would put a crimp in the fun around here
for a while, anyhow."

And Clyde unconsciously wet his dry lips with his tongue and swallowed
to moisten his already dry throat.

"I don't suppose any of to-day's papers would have anything about it
yet. Has any one looked?" inquired Wynette Phant, who had not heard
Sondra's opening remark.

"There ain't no papers," commented Burchard Taylor. "Besides, it's not
likely yet, didn't Sondra say she just heard it from Blanche Locke over
the phone? She's up near there."

"Oh, yes, that's right."

And yet might not that small local afternoon paper of Sharon--_The
Banner_, wasn't it--have something as to this? If only he could see it
yet to-night!

But another thought! For Heaven's sake! It came to him now for the
first time. His footprints! Were there any in the mud of that shore? He
had not even stopped to look, climbing out so hastily as he did. And
might there not have been? And then would they not know and proceed
to follow him--the man those three men saw? Clifford Golden! That
ride down this morning. His going out to the Cranstons' in their car.
That wet suit over in the room at the Cranstons'! Had any one in his
absence been in his room as yet to look, examine, inquire--open his
bag, maybe? An officer? God! It was there in his bag. But why in his
bag or anywhere else near him now? Why had he not hidden it before
this--thrown it in the lake here, maybe, with a stone in it? That would
keep it down. God! What was he thinking in the face of such a desperate
situation as this? Supposing he did need the suit!

He was now up, standing--mentally and physically frozen really--his
eyes touched with a stony glaze for the moment. He must get out of
here. He must go back there, at once, and dispose of that suit--drop
it in the lake--hide it somewhere in those woods beyond the house! And
yet--he could not do that so swiftly, either--leave so instantly after
this light conversation about the drowning of those two people. How
would that look?

And as instantly there came the thought--no--be calm--show no trace of
excitement of any kind, if you can manage it--appear cool--make some
unimportant remark, if you can.

And so now, mustering what nervous strength he had, and drawing
near to Sondra, he said: "Too bad, eh?" Yet in a voice that for all
its thinly-achieved normality was on the borderline of shaking and
trembling. His knees and his hands, also.

"Yes, it certainly is," replied Sondra, turning to him alone now. "I
always hate to hear of anything like that, don't you? Mother worries so
about Stuart and me fooling around these lakes as it is."

"Yes, I know." His voice was thick and heavy. He could scarcely form
the words. They were smothered, choked. His lips tightened to a thinner
white line than before. His face grew paler still.

"Why, what's the matter, Clydie?" Sondra asked, of a sudden, looking at
him more closely. "You look so pale! Your eyes. Anything wrong? Aren't
you feeling well to-night, or is it this light out here?"

She turned to look at some of the others in order to make sure, then
back at him. And he, feeling the extreme importance of looking anything
but the way she was describing him, now drew himself up as best he
could, and replied: "Oh, no. It must be the light, I guess. Sure, it's
the light. I had a--a--hard day yesterday, that's all. I shouldn't have
come over to-night, I suppose." And then achieving the weirdest and
most impossible of smiles. And Sondra, gazing most sympathetically,
adding: "Was he so tired? My Clydie-mydie boy, after his work
yesterday. Why didn't my baby boy tell me that this morning instead of
doing all that we did to-day? Want me to get Frank to run you down to
the Cranstons' now? Or maybe you'd like to go up in his room and lie
down? He won't mind, I know. Shall I ask him?"

She turned as if to speak to Frank, but Clyde, all but panic-stricken
by this latest suggestion, and yet angling for an excuse to leave,
exclaimed earnestly and yet shakily: "Please, please don't, darling.
I--I--don't want you to. I'll be all right. I'll go up after a bit if I
want to, or maybe home a little early, if you're going after a while,
but not now. I'm not feeling as good as I should, but I'll be all
right."

Sondra, because of his strained and as she now fancied almost
peevish tone, desisted with: "All right, honey. All right. But if
you don't feel well, I wish you would let me get Frank to take you
down or go upstairs. He won't mind. And then after a while--about
ten-thirty--I'll excuse myself and you can go down with me to your
place. I'll take you there before I go home and whoever else wants to
go. Won't my baby boy do something like that?"

And Clyde saying: "Well, I think I'll go up and get a drink, anyhow."
And disappearing in one of the spacious baths of the Harriet home,
locking the door and sitting down and thinking, thinking--of Roberta's
body recovered, of the possibilities of a bruise of some kind, of the
possibility of the print of his own feet in the mud and sandy loam
of the shore; of that suit over at the Cranstons', the men in the
wood, Roberta's bag, hat and coat, his own liningless hat left on the
water--and wondering what next to do. How to act! How to talk! Whether
to go downstairs to Sondra now and persuade her to go, or whether to
stay and suffer and agonize? And what would the morrow's papers reveal?
What? What? And was it wise, in case there was any news which would
make it look as though eventually he was to be sought after, or in any
way connected with this, to go on that proposed camping trip to-morrow!
Or, wiser, to run away from here? He had some money now. He could go
to New York, Boston, New Orleans where Ratterer was--but oh, no,--not
where any one knew him.

Oh, God! The folly of all his planning in connection with all this to
date! The flaws! Had he ever really planned it right from the start?
Had he ever really imagined, for instance, that Roberta's body would
be found in that deep water? And yet, here it was--risen so soon--this
first day--to testify against him! And although he had signed as he
had on those registers up there, was it not possible now, on account
of those three men and that girl on that boat, for him to be traced?
He must think, think, think! And get out of here as soon as possible,
before anything really fatal in connection with that suit should happen.

Growing momentarily weaker and more terrorized, he now decided to
return to Sondra below, and say that he was really feeling quite sick
and that if she did not object he would prefer to go home with her, if
she could arrange it. And consequently, at ten-thirty, when the evening
still had hours to go, Sondra announced to Burchard that she was not
feeling well and would he run her and Clyde and Jill down to her place,
but that she would see them all on the morrow in time for the proposed
departure for Bear Lake.

And Clyde, though brooding as to whether this early leaving on his
part was not another of those wretched errors which had seemed to
mark every step of this desperate and murderous scheme so far, finally
entering the swift launch and being raced to the Cranston lodge in
no time. And once there, excusing himself to Burchard and Sondra as
nonchalantly and apologetically as might be, and then hurrying to his
own room only to find the suit as he had left it--no least evidence
that any one had been there to disturb the serenity of his chamber.
Just the same, nervously and suspiciously, he now took it out and tied
it up, and then waiting and listening for a silent moment in which to
slip from the house unobserved--finally ambled out as though going for
a short walk. And then, by the shore of the lake--about a quarter of a
mile distant from the house--seeking out a heavy stone and tying the
suit to that. And then throwing it out into the water, as far as his
strength would permit. And then returning, as silently and gloomily
and nervously as he had gone, and brooding and brooding as to what the
morrow might reveal and what, if any one appeared to question him, he
would say.




                             CHAPTER VIII


The morrow dawned after an all but sleepless night, harrowed by the
most torturesome dreams in regard to Roberta, men who arrived to
arrest him, and the like, until at last he arose, his nerves and eyes
aching. Then, venturing to come downstairs about an hour later, he
saw Frederick, the chauffeur who had driven him out the day before,
getting one of the cars out. And thereupon instructing him to bring all
the morning Albany and Utica papers. And about nine thirty, when he
returned, proceeding to his room with them, where, locking the door and
spreading one of the papers before him, he was immediately confronted
by the startling headlines:

                       "MYSTERY IN GIRL'S DEATH
                BODY FOUND YESTERDAY IN ADIRONDACK LAKE
                        MAN COMPANION MISSING"

And at once strained and white he sat down in one of the chairs near
the window and began to read:

    "Bridgeburg, N. Y., July 9.--The body of an unknown girl,
    presumably the wife of a young man who registered first on
    Wednesday morning at Grass Lake Inn, Grass Lake, N. Y., as Carl
    Graham and wife, and later, Thursday noon, at Big Bittern Lodge,
    Big Bittern, as Clifford Golden and wife was taken from the waters
    of the south end of Big Bittern just before noon yesterday. Because
    of an upturned boat, as well as a man's straw hat found floating
    on the water in Moon Cove, dredging with hooks and lines had been
    going on all morning.... Up to seven o'clock last evening, however,
    the body of the man had not as yet been recovered, and according to
    Coroner Heit of Bridgeburg, who by two o'clock had been summoned to
    the scene of the tragedy, it was not considered at all likely that
    it would be. Several marks and abrasions found upon the dead girl's
    head and face, as well as the testimony of three men who arrived on
    the scene while the search was still on and testified to having met
    a young man who answered to the description of Golden or Graham in
    the woods to the south of the lake the night before, caused many to
    conclude that a murder had been committed and that the murderer was
    seeking to make his escape.

    "The girl's brown leather traveling bag, as well as a hat and coat
    belonging to her, were left, the bag in the ticket agent's room
    at Gun Lodge, which is the railway station five miles east of Big
    Bittern, and the hat and coat in the coatroom of the inn at the
    Lake, whereas Graham or Golden is said to have taken his suitcase
    with him into the boat.

    "According to the innkeeper at Big Bittern, the couple on their
    arrival registered as Clifford Golden and wife of Albany. They
    remained in the inn but a few minutes before Golden walked to the
    boat-landing just outside and procured a light boat, in which,
    accompanied by the girl and his suitcase, he went out on the
    lake. They did not return, and yesterday morning the boat was
    found bottomside up in what is known as Moon Cove, a small bay or
    extension at the extreme south end of the lake, from the waters of
    which soon afterwards the body of the young woman was recovered. As
    there are no known rocks in the lake at that point, and the wounds
    upon the face are quite marked, suspicion was at once aroused
    that the girl might have been unfairly dealt with. This, together
    with the testimony of the three men, as well as the fact that a
    man's straw hat found nearby contained no lining or other method
    of identification, has caused Coroner Heit to assert that unless
    the body of the man is found he will assume that murder has been
    committed.

    "Golden or Graham, as described by innkeepers and guests and
    guides at Grass Lake and Big Bittern, is not more than twenty-four
    or twenty-five years of age, slender, dark, and not more than
    five feet eight or nine inches tall. At the time he arrived he
    was dressed in a light gray suit, tan shoes, and a straw hat and
    carried a brown suitcase to which was attached an umbrella and some
    other object, presumably a cane.

    "The hat and coat left by the girl at the inn were of dark and
    light tan respectively, her dress a dark blue.

    "Notice has been sent to all railroad stations in this vicinity to
    be on the lookout for Golden, or Graham, in order that he may be
    arrested if he is alive and attempts to make his escape. The body
    of the drowned girl is to be removed to Bridgeburg, the county seat
    of this county, where an inquest is later to be held."

In frozen silence he sat and pondered. For would not the news of such
a dastardly murder as this now appeared to be, together with the fact
that it had been committed in this immediate vicinity, stir up such
marked excitement as to cause many--perhaps all--to scan all goers
and comers everywhere in the hope of detecting the one who had thus
been described? Might it not be better, therefore, since they were so
close on his trail already, if he were to go to the authorities at
Big Bittern or here and make a clean breast of all that had thus far
occurred, the original plot and the reasons therefor, only explaining
how at the very last he had not really killed her--had experienced a
change of heart and had not been able to do as he had planned? But, no.
That would be to give away to Sondra and the Griffiths all that had
been going on between him and Roberta--and before it was absolutely
certain that all was ended for him here. And besides, would they
believe him now, after that flight--those reported wounds? Did it not
really look as though he had killed her, regardless of how he might try
to explain that he had not?

It was not unlikely also that at least some among all those who had
seen him would be able to detect him from this printed description,
even though he no longer wore the gray suit or the straw hat. God!
They were looking for him, or rather for that Clifford Golden or Carl
Graham who looked like him, in order to charge him with murder! But if
he looked exactly like Clifford Golden and those three men came! He
began to shiver. And worst yet. A new and horrible thought, this--and
at this instant, and for the first time flashing upon his mind--the
similarity of those initials to his own! He had never thought of them
in an unfavorable light before, but now he could see that they were
detrimental. Why was it that he had never thought of that before? Why
was it? Why was it? Oh, God!

Just then a telephone call for him came from Sondra. It was announced
as from her. Yet even so he was compelled to brace himself in order to
make even an acceptable showing, vocally. How was her sick boy this
morning? Any better? How dreadful that illness last night to come on
him so suddenly. Was he really all right now? And was he going to
be able to go on the trip all right? That was fine. She had been so
frightened and so worried all night for fear he might be too sick to
want to go. But he was going, so everything was all right again now.
Darling! Precious baby! Did her baby boy love her so? She was just sure
that the trip would do him a lot of good. But until noon, now, dear,
she would be using all her spare time getting ready, but at one, or
one-thirty, everybody would be at the Casino pier. And then--oh, my!
Ho! for a great old time up there! He was to come with Bertine and
Grant and whoever else was coming from there, and then at the pier he
could change to Stuart's launch. They were certain to have so much
fun--just loads of it--but just now she would have to go. Bye-bye!

And once more like a bright-colored bird she was gone.

But three hours to wait before he could leave here and so avoid the
danger of encountering any one who might be looking for Clifford Golden
or Carl Graham! Still until then he could walk up the lake shore into
the woods, couldn't he?--or sit below, his bag all packed, and watch
who, if anybody, might approach along the long-winding path from the
road or by launch across the lake. And if he saw any one who looked
at all suspicious, he could take flight, could he not? And afterwards
doing just that--first walking away into the woods and looking back,
as might a hunted animal. Then later returning and sitting or walking,
but always watching, watching. (What man was that? What boat was that?
Where was it going? Was it coming here, by any chance? Who was in it?
Supposing an officer--a detective? Then flight, of course--if there was
still time.)

But, at last one o'clock, and the Cranston launch, with Bertine and
Harley and Wynette, as well as Grant and himself, setting out for the
pier. And once there, joined by all who were going, together with the
servants. And at Little Fish Inlet, thirty miles north, on the eastern
shore, they were met by the cars of the Baggotts', Harriets' and
others, from where, with their goods and canoes, they were portaged
forty miles east to Bear Lake, as lonely and as arresting almost as Big
Bittern itself.

The joy of this trip if only that other thing were not hanging over him
now. This exquisite pleasure of being near Sondra, her eyes constantly
telling him how much she cared. And her spirit's flame so high because
of his presence here with her now. And yet Roberta's body up! That
search for Clifford Golden--Carl Graham. His identical description
wired as well as published everywhere. These others--all of them in
their boats and cars had probably read it. And yet, because of their
familiarity with him and his connections--Sondra, the Griffiths--not
suspecting him--not thinking of the description even. But if they
should! If they should guess! The horror! The flight! The exposure! The
police! The first to desert him--these--all save Sondra perhaps. And
even she, too. Yes, she, of course. The horror in her eyes.

And then that evening at sundown, on the west shore of this same
lake, on an open sward that was as smooth as any well-kept lawn, the
entire company settled, in five different colored tents ranged about
a fire like an Indian village, with cooks' and servants' tents in the
distance. And the half dozen canoes beached like bright fish along the
grassy shore of the lake. And then supper around an open fire. And
Baggott and Harriet and Stuart and Grant, after furnishing music for
the others to dance by, organizing, by the flare of a large gasoline
lamp, a poker game. And the others joining in singing ribald camping
and college songs, no one of which Clyde knew, yet in which he tried to
join. And shouts of laughter. And bets as to who would be the first to
catch the first fish, to shoot the first squirrel or partridge, to win
the first race. And lastly, solemn plans for moving the camp at least
ten miles farther east, after breakfast, on the morrow where was an
ideal beach, and where they would be within five miles of the Wetissic
Inn, and where they could dine and dance to their heart's content.

And then the silence and the beauty of this camp at night, after all
had presumably gone to bed. The stars! The mystic, shadowy water,
faintly rippling in a light wind, the mystic, shadowy pines conferring
in the light breezes, the cries of night birds and owls--too disturbing
to Clyde to be listened to with anything but inward distress. The
wonder and glory of all this--if only--if only he were not stalked
after, as by a skeleton, by the horror not only of what he had done
in connection with Roberta but the danger and the power of the law
that deemed him a murderer! And then Sondra, the others having gone to
bed--or off into the shadow,--stealing out for a few last words and
kisses under the stars. And he whispering to her how happy he was, how
grateful for all her love and faith, and at one point almost tempted to
ask whether in case it should ever appear that he was not as good as
she now seemed to imagine him, she would still love him a little--not
hate him entirely--yet refraining for fear that after that exhibition
of terror the preceding night she might connect his present mood with
that, or somehow with the horrible, destructive secret that was gnawing
at his vitals.

And then afterwards, lying in the four-cot tent with Baggott, Harriet
and Grant, listening nervously for hours for any prowling steps that
might mean--that might mean--God--what might they not mean even up
here?--the law! arrest! exposure! Death. And waking twice in the
night out of dread, destructive dreams,--and feeling as though--and
fearing--that he had cried out in his sleep.

But then the glory of the morning once more--with its rotund and
yellow sun rising over the waters of the lake--and in a cove across
the lake wild ducks paddling about. And after a time Grant and Stuart
and Harley, half-clad and with guns and a great show of fowling skill,
foolishly setting forth in canoes in the hope of bagging some of the
game with long distance shots, yet getting nothing, to the merriment of
all the others. And the boys and girls, stealing out in bright-colored
bathing suits and silken beach robes to the water, there to plunge
gayly in and shout and clatter concerning the joy of it all. And
breakfast at nine, with afterwards the gayety and beauty of the bright
flotilla of canoes making eastward along the southern lake shore,
banjos, guitars and mandolins strumming and voices raised in song,
jest, laughter.

"Whatever matter wissum sweet to-day? Face all dark. Cantum be happy
out here wis Sonda and all these nicey good-baddies?"

And Clyde as instantly realizing that he must pretend to be gay and
care-free.

And then Harley Baggott and Grant and Harriet at about noon announcing
that there--just ahead--was the fine beach they had in mind--the
Ramshorn, a spit of land commanding from its highest point all the
length and breadth of the lake. And with room on the shore below
for all the tents and paraphernalia of the company. And then,
throughout this warm, pleasant Sunday afternoon, the usual program of
activities--lunching, swimming, dancing, walking, card-playing, music.
And Clyde and Sondra, like other couples, stealing off--Sondra with a
mandolin--to a concealed rock far to the east of the camp, where in the
shade of the pines they could lie--Sondra in Clyde's arms--and talk
of the things they were certain to do later, even though, as she now
announced, Mrs. Finchley was declaring that after this particular visit
of Clyde's her daughter was to have nothing more to do with him in
any such intimate social way as this particular trip gave opportunity
for. He was too poor--too nondescript a relative of the Griffiths. (It
was so that Sondra, yet in a more veiled way, described her mother as
talking.) Yet adding: "How ridiculous, sweetum! But don't you mind. I
just laughed and agreed because I don't want to aggravate her just now.
But I did ask her how I was to avoid meeting you here or anywhere now
since you are as popular as you are. My sweetum is so good-looking.
Everybody thinks so--even the boys."

       *       *       *       *       *

At this very hour, on the veranda of the Silver Inn at Sharon, District
Attorney Mason, with his assistant Burton Burleigh, Coroner Heit and
Earl Newcomb, and the redoubtable Sheriff Slack, paunched and scowling,
yet genial enough in ordinary social intercourse, together with three
assistants--first, second and third deputies Kraut, Sissell and
Swenk--conferring as to the best and most certain methods of immediate
capture.

"He has gone to Bear Lake. We must follow and trap him before news
reaches him in any way that he is wanted."

And so they set forth--this group---Burleigh and Earl Newcomb about
Sharon itself in order to gather such additional data as they might
in connection with Clyde's arrival and departure from here for the
Cranstons' on Friday, talking with and subpœnaing any such individuals
as might throw any light on his movements; Heit to Three Mile Bay on
much the same errand, to see Captain Mooney of the "Cygnus" and the
three men and Mason, together with the sheriff and his deputies, in a
high-powered launch chartered for the occasion, to follow the now known
course of the only recently-departed camping party, first to Little
Fish Inlet and from there, in case the trail proved sound, to Bear Lake.

And on Monday morning, while those at Ramshorn Point after breaking
camp were already moving on toward Shelter Beach fourteen miles east,
Mason, together with Slack and his three deputies, arriving at the
camp deserted the morning before. And there, the Sheriff and Mason
taking counsel with each other and then dividing their forces so that
in canoes commandeered from lone residents of the region they now
proceeded, Mason and First Deputy Kraut along the south shore, Slack
and Second Deputy Sissell along the north shore, while young Swenk,
blazing with a desire to arrest and handcuff some one, yet posing for
the occasion as a lone young hunter or woodsman, paddled directly
east along the center of the lake in search of any informing smoke
or fires or tents or individuals idling along the shores. And with
great dreams of being the one to capture the murderer--I arrest you,
Clyde Griffiths, in the name of the law!--yet because of instructions
from Mason, as well as Slack, grieving that instead, should he detect
any signs, being the furthermost outpost, he must, in order to avoid
frightening the prey or losing him, turn on his track and from some
point not so likely to be heard by the criminal fire one single shot
from his eight-chambered repeater, whereupon whichever party chanced to
be nearest would fire one shot in reply and then proceed as swiftly as
possible in his direction. But under no circumstances was he to attempt
to take the criminal alone, unless noting the departure by boat or on
foot of a suspicious person who answered the description of Clyde.

At this very hour, Clyde, with Harley Baggott, Bertine and Sondra, in
one of the canoes, paddling eastward along with the remainder of the
flotilla, looking back and wondering. Supposing by now, some officer or
some one had arrived at Sharon and was following him up here? For would
it be hard to find where he had gone, supposing only that they knew his
name?

But they did not know his name. Had not the items in the papers proved
that? Why worry so always, especially on this utterly wonderful trip
and when at last he and Sondra could be together again? And besides,
was it not now possible for him to wander off by himself into these
thinly populated woods along the shore to the eastward, toward that
inn at the other end of the lake--and not return? Had he not inquired
most casually on Saturday afternoon of Harley Baggott as well as others
as to whether there was a road south or east from the east end of the
lake? And had he not learned there was?

And at last, at noon, Monday, reaching Shelter Beach, the third spot of
beauty contemplated by the planners of this outing, where he helped to
pitch the tents again while the girls played about.

Yet at the same hour, at the Ramshorn site, because of the ashes
from their fires left upon the shore, young Swenk, most eagerly and
enthusiastically, like some seeking animal, approaching and examining
the same and then going on--swiftly. And but one hour later, Mason and
Kraut, reconnoitering the same spot, but without either devoting more
than a cursory glance, since it was obvious that the prey had moved
farther on.

But then greater speed in paddling on the part of Swenk, until by
four he arrived at Shelter Beach. And then, descrying as many as
a half dozen people in the water in the distance, at once turning
and retreating in the direction of the others in order to give the
necessary signal. And some two miles back firing one shot, which in its
turn was responded to by Mason as well as Sheriff Slack Both parties
had heard and were now paddling swiftly east.

At once Clyde in the water--near Sondra--hearing this was made to
wonder. The ominous quality of that first shot! Followed by those two
additional signals--farther away, yet seemingly in answer to the first!
And then the ominous silence thereafter! What was that? And with Harley
Baggott jesting: "Listen to the guys shooting game out of season, will
you? It's against the law, isn't it?"

"Hey, you!" Grant Cranston shouted. "Those are my ducks down there! Let
'em alone."

"If they can't shoot any better than you, Granty, they will let 'em
alone." This from Bertine.

Clyde, while attempting to smile, looked in the direction of the sound
and listened like a hunted animal.

What was it now that urged him to get out of the water and dress and
run? Hurry! Hurry! To your tent! To the woods, quick! Until at last
heeding this, and while most of the others were not looking, hurrying
to his tent, changing to the one plain blue business suit and cap that
he still possessed, then slipping into the woods back of the camp--out
of sight and hearing of all present until he should be able to think
and determine, but keeping always safely inland out of the direct view
of the water, for fear--for fear--who could tell exactly what those
shots meant?

Yet Sondra! And her words of Saturday and yesterday and to-day. Could
he leave her in this way, without being sure? Could he? Her kisses! Her
dear assurances as to the future! What would she think now--and those
others--in case he did not go back? The comment which was certain to
be made in the Sharon and other papers in regard to this disappearance
of his, and which was certain to identify him with this same Clifford
Golden or Carl Graham! was it not?

Then reflecting also--the possible groundlessness of these fears, based
on nothing more, maybe, than the chance shots of passing hunters on
the lake or in these woods. And then pausing and debating with himself
whether to go on or not. Yet, oh, the comfort of these tall, pillared
trees--the softness and silence of these brown, carpeting needles on
the ground--the clumps and thickets of underbrush under which one could
lie and hide until night should fall again. And then on--and on. But
turning, none-the-less, with the intention of returning to the camp to
see whether any one had come there. (He might say he had taken a walk
and got lost in the woods.)

But about this time, behind a protecting group of trees at least two
miles west of the camp, a meeting and conference between Mason, Slack
and all the others. And later, as a result of this and even as Clyde
lingered and returned somewhat nearer the camp, Mason, Swenk paddling
the canoe, arriving and inquiring of those who were now on shore if
a Mr. Clyde Griffiths was present and might he see him. And Harley
Baggott, being nearest, replying: "Why, yes, sure. He's around here
somewhere." And Stuart Finchley calling: "Eh-o, Griffiths!" But no
reply.

Yet Clyde, not near enough to hear any of this, even now returning
toward the camp, very slowly and cautiously. And Mason concluding that
possibly he was about somewhere and unaware of anything, of course,
deciding to wait a few minutes anyhow--while advising Swenk to fall
back into the woods and if by any chance encountering Slack or any
other to advise him that one man be sent east along the bank and
another west, while he--Swenk--proceeded in a boat eastward as before
to the inn at the extreme end, in order that from there word might be
given to all as to the presence of the suspect in this region.

In the meanwhile Clyde by now only three-quarters of a mile east, and
still whispered to by something which said: Run, run, do not linger!
yet lingering, and thinking _Sondra_, this wonderful life! Should he go
so? And saying to himself that he might be making a greater mistake by
going than by staying. For supposing those shots were nothing--hunters,
mere game shots meaning nothing in his case--and yet costing him all?
And yet turning at last and saying to himself that perhaps it might
be best not to return at present, anyhow at least not until very
late--after dark--to see if those strange shots had meant anything.

But then again pausing silently and dubiously, the while vesper
sparrows and woodfinches sang. And peering. And peeking nervously.

And then all at once, not more than fifty feet distant, out of the
long, tall aisles of the trees before him, a whiskered, woodsman-like
type of man approaching swiftly, yet silently--a tall, bony, sharp-eyed
man in a brown felt hat and a brownish-gray baggy and faded suit
that hung loosely over his spare body. And as suddenly calling as he
came--which caused Clyde's blood to run cold with fear and rivet him to
the spot.

"Hold on a moment, mister! Don't move. Your name don't happen to be
Clyde Griffiths, does it?" And Clyde, noting the sharp inquisitorial
look in the eye of this stranger, as well as the fact that he had
already drawn a revolver and was lifting it up, now pausing, the
definiteness and authority of the man chilling him to the marrow. Was
he really being captured? Had the officers of the law truly come for
him? God! No hope of flight now! Why had he not gone on? Oh, why not?
And at once he was weak and shaking, yet, not wishing to incriminate
himself about to reply, "No!" Yet because of a more sensible thought,
replying, "Why, yes, that's my name."

"You're with this camping party just west of here, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, I am."

"All right, Mr. Griffiths. Excuse the revolver. I'm told to get you,
whatever happens, that's all. My name is Kraut. Nicholas Kraut. I'm
a deputy sheriff of Cataraqui County. And I have a warrant here for
your arrest. I suppose you know what for, and that you're prepared
to come with me peaceably." And at this Mr. Kraut gripped the heavy,
dangerous-looking weapon more firmly even, and gazed at Clyde in a
firm, conclusive way.

"Why--why--no--I don't," replied Clyde, weakly and heavily, his face
white and thin. "But if you have a warrant for my arrest, I'll go with
you, certainly. But what--what--I don't understand"--his voice began to
tremble slightly as he said this--"is--is why you want to arrest me?"

"You don't, eh? You weren't up at either Big Bittern or Grass Lake by
any chance on last Wednesday or Thursday, eh?"

"Why, no, sir, I wasn't," replied Clyde, falsely.

"And you don't happen to know anything about the drowning of a girl up
there that you were supposed to be with--Roberta Alden, of Biltz, New
York, I believe."

"Why, my God, no!" replied Clyde, nervously and staccatically, the true
name of Roberta and her address being used by this total stranger, and
so soon, staggering him. Then they knew! They had obtained a clue. His
true name and hers! God! "Am I supposed to have committed a murder?" he
added, his voice faint--a mere whisper.

"Then you don't know that she was drowned last Thursday? And you
weren't with her at that time?" Mr. Kraut fixed a hard, inquisitive,
unbelieving eye on him.

"Why, no, of course, I wasn't," replied Clyde, recalling now but one
thing--that he must deny all--until he should think or know what else
to do or say.

"And you didn't meet three men walking south last Thursday night from
Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay at about eleven o'clock?"

"Why, no, sir. Of course I didn't. I wasn't up there, I told you."

"Very well, Mr. Griffiths, I haven't anything more to say. All I'm
supposed to do is to arrest you, Clyde Griffiths, for the murder of
Roberta Alden. You're my prisoner." He drew forth--more by way of a
demonstration of force and authority than anything else--a pair of
steel handcuffs, which caused Clyde to shrink and tremble as though he
had been beaten.

"You needn't put those on me, mister," he pleaded. "I wish you
wouldn't. I never had anything like that on before. I'll go with you
without them." He looked longingly and sadly about at the trees, into
the sheltering depths of which so recently he ought to have plunged. To
safety.

"Very well, then," replied the redoubtable Kraut. "So long as you come
along peaceful." And he took Clyde by one of his almost palsied arms.

"Do you mind if I ask you something else," asked Clyde, weakly and
fearsomely, as they now proceeded, the thought of Sondra and the others
shimmering blindingly and reducingly before his eyes. Sondra! Sondra!
To go back there an arrested murderer! And before her and Bertine! Oh,
no! "Are you, are you intending to take me to that camp back there?"

"Yes, sir, that's where I'm intending to take you now. Them's my
orders. That's where the district attorney and the sheriff of Cataraqui
County are just now."

"Oh, I know, I know," pleaded Clyde, hysterically, for by now he had
lost almost all poise, "but couldn't you--couldn't you--so long as I go
along just as you want--those are all my friends, you know, back there,
and I'd hate ... couldn't you just take me around the camp somewhere
to wherever you want to take me? I have a very special reason--that
is--I--I, oh, God, I hope you won't take me back there right now--will
you please, Mr. Kraut?"

He seemed to Kraut very boyish and weak now--clean of feature, rather
innocent as to eye, well-dressed and well-mannered--not at all the
savage and brutal or murderous type he had expected to find. Indeed
quite up to the class whom he (Kraut) was inclined to respect. And
might he not after all be a youth of very powerful connections? The
conversations he had listened to thus far had indicated that this youth
was certainly identified with one of the best families in Lycurgus. And
in consequence he was now moved to a slight show of courtesy and so
added: "Very well, young man, I don't want to be too hard on you. After
all, I'm not the sheriff or the district attorney--just the arresting
officer. There are others down there who are going to be able to say
what to do about you--and when we get down to where they are, you can
ask 'em, and it may be that they won't find it necessary to take you
back in there. But how about your clothes? They're back there, ain't
they?"

"Oh, yes, but that doesn't matter," replied Clyde, nervously and
eagerly. "I can get those any time. I just don't want to go back now,
if I can help it."

"All right, then, come along," replied Mr. Kraut.

And so it was that they walked on together now in silence, the tall
shafts of the trees in the approaching dusk making solemn aisles
through which they proceeded as might worshipers along the nave of a
cathedral, the eyes of Clyde contemplating nervously and wearily a
smear of livid red still visible through the trees to the west.

Charged with murder! Roberta dead! And Sondra dead--to him! And the
Griffiths! And his uncle! And his mother! And all those people in that
camp!

Oh, oh, God, why was it that he had not run, when that something,
whatever it was, had so urged him?




                              CHAPTER IX


In the absence of Clyde, the impressions taken by Mr. Mason of the
world in which he moved here, complementing and confirming those of
Lycurgus and Sharon, were sufficient to sober him in regard to the
ease (possibly) with which previously he had imagined it might be
possible to convict him. For about him was such a scene as suggested
all the means as well as the impulse to quiet such a scandal as this.
Wealth. Luxury. Important names and connections to protect no doubt.
Was it not possible that the rich and powerful Griffiths, their nephew
seized in this way and whatever his crime, would take steps to secure
the best legal talent available, in order to protect their name?
Unquestionably--and then with such adjournments as it was possible for
such talent to secure, might it not be possible that long before he
could hope to convict him, he himself would automatically be disposed
of as a prosecutor and without being nominated for and elected to the
judgeship he so craved and needed.

Sitting before the circle of attractive tents that faced the lake and
putting in order a fishing-pole and reel, was Harley Baggott, in a
brightly-colored sweater and flannel trousers. And through the open
flies of several tents, glimpses of individuals--Sondra, Bertine,
Wynette and others--busy about toilets necessitated by the recent swim.
Being dubious because of the smartness of the company as to whether
it was politically or socially wise to proclaim openly the import
of his errand, he chose to remain silent for a time, reflecting on
the difference between the experiences of his early youth and that
of Roberta Alden and these others. Naturally as he saw it a man of
this Griffiths' connections would seek to use a girl of Roberta's
connections thus meanly and brutally and hope to get away with it. Yet,
eager to make as much progress as he could against whatever inimical
fates might now beset him, he finally approached Baggott, and, most
acidly, yet with as much show of genial and appreciative sociability as
he could muster, observed:

"A delightful place for a camp, eh?"

"Yeh, we think so."

"Just a group from the estates and hotels about Sharon, I suppose?"

"Yeh. The south and west shore principally."

"Not any of the Griffiths, other than Mr. Clyde, I presume?"

"No, they're still over at Greenwood, I think."

"You know Mr. Clyde Griffiths personally, I suppose?"

"Oh, sure--he's one of the party."

"You don't happen to know how long he's been up here this time, I
presume--up with the Cranstons, I mean."

"Since Friday, I think. I saw him Friday morning, anyhow. But he'll
be back here soon and you can ask him yourself," concluded Baggott,
beginning to sense that Mr. Mason was a little too inquisitive and in
addition not of either his or Clyde's world.

And just then, Frank Harriet, with a tennis racquet under his arm,
striding across the foreground.

"Where to, Frankie?"

"To try those courts Harrison laid out up here this morning."

"Who with?"

"Violet, Nadine and Stuart."

"Any room for another court?"

"Sure, there's two. Why not get Bert, and Clyde, and Sondra, and come
up?"

"Well, maybe, after I get this thing set."

And Mason at once thinking: Clyde and Sondra. Clyde Griffiths and
Sondra Finchley--the very girl whose notes and cards were in one of his
pockets now. And might he not see her here, along with Clyde--possibly
later talk to her about him?

But just then, Sondra and Bertine and Wynette coming out of their
respective tents. And Bertine calling: "Oh, say, Harley, seen Nadine
anywhere?"

"No, but Frank just went by. He said he was going up to the courts to
play with her and Violet and Stew."

"Yes? Well, then, come on, Sondra. You too, Wynette. We'll see how it
looks."

Bertine, as she pronounced Sondra's name, turned to take her arm, which
gave Mason the exact information and opportunity he desired--that of
seeing and studying for a moment the girl who had so tragically and no
doubt all unwittingly replaced Roberta in Clyde's affections. And, as
he could see for himself, more beautiful, more richly appareled than
ever the other could have hoped to be. And alive, as opposed to the
other now dead and in a morgue in Bridgeburg.

But even as he gazed, the three tripping off together arm in arm,
Sondra calling back to Harley: "If you see Clyde, tell him to come
on up, will you?" And he replying: "Do you think that shadow of yours
needs to be told?"

Mason, impressed by the color and the drama, looked intently and even
excitedly about. Now it was all so plain why he wanted to get rid of
the girl--the true, underlying motive. That beautiful girl there, as
well as this luxury to which he aspired. And to think that a young man
of his years and opportunities would stoop to such a horrible trick as
that! Unbelievable! And only four days after the murder of the other
poor girl, playing about with this beautiful girl in this fashion,
and hoping to marry her, as Roberta had hoped to marry him. The
unbelievable villainies of life!

Now, half-determining since Clyde did not appear, that he would
proclaim himself and proceed to search for and seize his belongings
here, Ed Swenk re-appearing and with a motion of the head indicating
that Mason was to follow him. And once well within the shadow of the
surrounding trees, indicating no less an individual than Nicholas
Kraut, attended by a slim, neatly-dressed youth of about Clyde's
reported years, who, on the instant and because of the waxy paleness of
his face, he assumed must be Clyde. And at once he now approached him,
as might an angry wasp or hornet, only pausing first to ask of Swenk
where he had been captured and by whom--then gazing at Clyde critically
and austerely as befitted one who represented the power and majesty of
the law.

"So you are Clyde Griffiths, are you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Mr. Griffiths, my name is Orville Mason. I am the district
attorney of the county in which Big Bittern and Grass Lake are
situated. I suppose you are familiar enough with those two places by
now, aren't you?"

He paused to see the effect of this sardonic bit of commentary. Yet
although he expected to see him wince and quail, Clyde merely gazed at
him, his nervous, dark eyes showing enormous strain. "No, sir, I can't
say that I am."

For with each step through the woods thus far back, there had been
growing within him the utter and unshakable conviction that in the
face of whatever seeming proof or charges might now appear, he dared
not tell anything in regard to himself, his connection with Roberta,
his visit to Big Bittern or Grass Lake. He dared not. For that would
be the same as a confession of guilt in connection with something of
which he was not really guilty. And no one must believe--never--Sondra,
or the Griffiths, or any of these fine friends of his, that he could
ever have been guilty of such a thought, even. And yet here they were,
all within call, and at any moment might approach and so learn the
meaning of his arrest. And while he felt the necessity for so denying
any knowledge in connection with all this, at the same time he stood in
absolute terror of this man--the opposition and irritated mood such an
attitude might arouse in him. That broken nose. His large, stern eyes.

And then Mason, eyeing him as one might an unheard-of and yet desperate
animal and irritated also by his denial, yet assuming from his blanched
expression that he might and no doubt would shortly be compelled to
confess his guilt, continuing with: "You know what you are charged
with, Mr. Griffiths, of course."

"Yes, sir, I just heard it from this man here."

"And you admit it?"

"Why, no, sir, of course I don't admit it," replied Clyde, his thin
and now white lips drawn tight over his even teeth, his eyes full of a
deep, tremulous yet evasive terror.

"Why, what nonsense! What effrontery! You deny being up to Grass Lake
and Big Bittern on last Wednesday and Thursday?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then," and now Mason stiffened himself in an angry and at the
same time inquisitorial way, "I suppose you are going to deny knowing
Roberta Alden--the girl you took to Grass Lake, and then out on Big
Bittern in that boat last Thursday--the girl you knew in Lycurgus all
last year, who lived at Mrs. Gilpin's and worked under you in your
department at Griffiths & Company--the girl to whom you gave that
toilet set last Christmas! I suppose you're going to say that your
name isn't Clyde Griffiths and that you haven't been living with Mrs.
Peyton in Taylor Street, and that these aren't letters and cards from
your trunk there--from Roberta Alden and from Miss Finchley, all these
cards and notes." And extracting the letters and cards as he spoke and
waving them before Clyde. And at each point in this harangue, thrusting
his broad face, with its flat, broken nose and somewhat aggressive chin
directly before Clyde's, and blazing at him with sultry, contemptuous
eyes, while the latter leaned away from him, wincing almost perceptibly
and with icy chills running up and down his spine and affecting his
heart and brain. Those letters! All this information concerning him!
And back in his bag in the tent there, all those more recent letters
of Sondra's in which she dwelt on how they were to elope together this
coming fall. If only he had destroyed them! And now this man might
find those--would--and question Sondra maybe, and all these others.
He shrunk and congealed spiritually, the revealing effects of his so
poorly conceived and executed scheme weighing upon him as the world
upon the shoulders of an inadequate Atlas.

And yet, feeling that he must say something and yet not admit anything.
And finally replying: "My name's Clyde Griffiths all right, but the
rest of this isn't true. I don't know anything about the rest of it."

"Oh, come now, Mr. Griffiths! Don't begin by trying to play fast and
loose with me. We won't get anywhere that way. You won't help yourself
one bit by that with me, and besides I haven't any time for that now.
Remember these men here are witnesses to what you say. I've just come
from Lycurgus--your room at Mrs. Peyton's--and I have in my possession
your trunk and this Miss Alden's letters to you--indisputable proof
that you did know this girl, that you courted and seduced her last
winter, and that since then--this spring--when she became pregnant on
your account, you induced her first to go home and then later to go
away with you on this trip in order, as you told her, to marry her.
Well, you married her all right--to the grave--that's how you married
her--to the water at the bottom of Big Bittern Lake! And you can
actually stand here before me now, when I tell you that I have all the
evidence I need right on my person, and say that you don't even know
her! Well, I'll be damned!"

And as he spoke his voice grew so loud that Clyde feared that it
could be clearly heard in the camp beyond. And that Sondra herself
might hear it and come over. And although at the out-rush and jab and
slash of such dooming facts as Mason so rapidly outlined, his throat
tightened and his hands were with difficulty restrained from closing
and clinching vise-wise, at the conclusion of it all he merely replied:
"Yes, sir."

"Well, I'll be damned!" reiterated Mason. "I can well believe now that
you would kill a girl and sneak away in just such a way as you did--and
with her in that condition! But then to try to deny her own letters to
you! Why, you might as well try to deny that you're here and alive.
These cards and notes here--what about them? I suppose they're not from
Miss Finchley? How about those? Do you mean to tell me these are not
from her either?"

He waved them before Clyde's eyes. And Clyde, seeing that the truth
concerning these, Sondra being within call, was capable of being
substantiated here and now, replied: "No, I don't deny that those are
from her."

"Very good. But these others from your trunk in the same room are not
from Miss Alden to you?"

"I don't care to say as to that," he replied, blinking feebly as Mason
waved Roberta's letters before him.

"Tst! Tst! Tst! Of all things," clicked Mason in high dudgeon. "Such
nonsense! Such effrontery! Oh, very well, we won't worry about all that
now. I can easily prove it all when the time comes. But how you can
stand there and deny it, knowing that I have the evidence, is beyond
me! A card in your own handwriting which you forgot to take out of the
bag you had her leave at Gun Lodge while you took yours with you, Mr.
Carl Graham, Mr. Clifford Golden, Mr. Clyde Griffiths,--a card on which
you wrote 'From Clyde to Bert, Merry Xmas.' Do you remember that? Well,
here it is." And here he reached into his pocket and drew forth the
small card taken from the toilet set and waved it under Clyde's nose.
"Have you forgotten that, too? Your own handwriting!" And then pausing
and getting no reply, finally adding: "Why, what a dunce you are!--what
a poor plotter, without even the brains not to use your own initials in
getting up those fake names you had hoped to masquerade under--Mr. Carl
Graham--Mr. Clifford Golden!"

At the same time, fully realizing the importance of a confession
and wondering how it was to be brought about here and now, Mason
suddenly--Clyde's expression, his frozen-faced terror, suggesting the
thought that perhaps he was too frightened to talk at once changed his
tactics--at least to the extent of lowering his voice, smoothing the
formidable wrinkles from his forehead and about his mouth.

"You see, it's this way, Griffiths," he now began, much more calmly
and simply. "Lying or just foolish thoughtless denial under such
circumstances as these can't help you in the least. It can only harm
you, and that's the truth. You may think I've been a little rough so
far, but it was only because I've been under a great strain myself in
connection with this case, trying to catch up with some one I thought
would be a very different type from yourself. But now that I see you
and see how you feel about it all--how really frightened you are by
what has happened--it just occurs to me that there may be something in
connection with this case, some extenuating circumstances, which, if
they were related by you now, might throw a slightly different light
on all this. Of course, I don't know. You yourself ought to be the
best judge, but I'm laying the thought before you for what it's worth.
For, of course, here are these letters. Besides, when we get to Three
Mile Bay to-morrow, as we will, I hope, there will be those three men
who met you the other night walking south from Big Bittern. And not
only those, but the innkeeper from Grass Lake, the innkeeper from Big
Bittern, the boatkeeper up there who rented that boat, and the driver
who drove you and Roberta Alden over from Gun Lodge. They will identify
you. Do you think they won't know you--not any of them--not be able to
say whether you were up there with her or not, or that a jury when the
time comes won't believe them?"

And all this Clyde registered mentally like a machine clicking to a
coin, yet said nothing,--merely staring, frozen.

"And not only that," went on Mason, very softly and most
ingratiatingly, "but there's Mrs. Peyton. She saw me take these letters
and cards out of that trunk of yours in your room and from the top
drawer of your chiffonier. Next, there are all those girls in that
factory where you and Miss Alden worked. Do you suppose they're not
going to remember all about you and her when they learn that she is
dead? Oh, what nonsense! You ought to be able to see that for yourself,
whatever you think. You certainly can't expect to get away with that.
It makes a sort of a fool out of you. You can see that for yourself."

He paused again, hoping for a confession. But Clyde still convinced
that any admission in connection with Roberta or Big Bittern spelled
ruin, merely stared while Mason proceeded to add:

"All right, Griffiths, I'm now going to tell you one more thing, and I
couldn't give you better advice if you were my own son or brother and
I were trying to get you out of this instead of merely trying to get
you to tell the truth. If you hope to do anything at all for yourself
now, it's not going to help you to deny everything in the way you are
doing. You are simply making trouble and condemning yourself in other
people's eyes. Why not say that you did know her and that you were up
there with her and that she wrote you those letters, and be done with
it? You can't get out of that, whatever else you may hope to get out
of. Any sane person--your own mother, if she were here--would tell you
the same thing. It's too ridiculous and indicates guilt rather than
innocence. Why not come clean here and now as to those facts, anyhow,
before it's too late to take advantage of any mitigating circumstances
in connection with all this--if there are any? And if you do _now_, and
I can help you in any way, I promise you here and now that I'll be
only too glad to do so. For, after all, I'm not out here just to hound
a man to death or make him confess to something that he hasn't done,
but merely to get at the truth in the case. But if you're going to deny
that you even knew this girl when I tell you I have all the evidence
and can prove it, why then----" and here the district attorney lifted
his hands aloft most wearily and disgustedly.

But now as before Clyde remained silent and pale. In spite of all Mason
had revealed, and all that this seemingly friendly, intimate advice
seemed to imply, still he could not conceive that it would be anything
less than disastrous for him to admit that he even knew Roberta. The
fatality of such a confession in the eyes of these others here. The
conclusion of all his dreams in connection with Sondra and this life.
And so, in the face of this--silence, still. And at this, Mason,
irritated beyond measure, finally exclaiming: "Oh, very well, then.
So you've finally decided not to talk, have you?" And Clyde, blue and
weak, replied: "I had nothing to do with her death. That's all I can
say now," yet even as he said it thinking that perhaps he had better
not say that--that perhaps he had better say--well, what? That he knew
Roberta, of course, had been up there with her, for that matter--but
that he had never intended to kill her--that her drowning was an
accident. For he had not struck her at all, except by accident, had he?
Only it was best not to confess to having struck her at all, wasn't it?
For who under such circumstances would believe that he had struck her
with a camera by accident. Best not to mention the camera, since there
was no mention anywhere in the papers that he had had one with him.

And he was still cogitating while Mason was exclaiming: "Then you admit
that you knew her?"

"No, sir."

"Very well, then," he now added, turning to the others, "I suppose
there's nothing for it but to take him back there and see what they
know about him. Perhaps that will get something out of this fine
bird--to confront him with his friends. His bag and things are still
back there in one of those tents, I believe. Suppose we take him down
there, gentlemen, and see what these other people know about him."

And now, swiftly and coldly he turned, while Clyde, already shrinking
at the horror of what was coming, exclaimed: "Oh, please, no! You don't
mean to do that, do you? Oh, you won't do that! Oh, please, no!"

And at this point Kraut speaking up and saying: "He asked me back there
in the woods if I wouldn't ask you not to take him in there." "Oh,
so that's the way the wind blows, is it?" exclaimed Mason at this.
"Too thin-skinned to be shown up before ladies and gentlemen of the
Twelfth Lake colony, but not even willing to admit that you knew the
poor little working-girl who worked for you. Very good. Well, then,
my fine friend, suppose you come through with what you really do know
now, or down there you go." And he paused a moment to see what effect
that would have. "We'll call all those people together and explain just
how things are, and then see if you will be willing to stand there
and deny everything!" But noting still a touch of hesitation in Clyde
he now added: "Bring him along, boys." And turning toward the camp he
proceeded to walk in that direction a few paces while Kraut taking
one arm, and Swenk another, and beginning to move Clyde he ended by
exclaiming:

"Oh, please, no! Oh, I hope you won't do anything like that, will you,
Mr. Mason? Oh, I don't want to go back there if you don't mind. It
isn't that I'm guilty, but you can get all my things without my going
back there. And besides it will mean so much to me just now." Beads of
perspiration once more burst forth on his pale face and hands and he
was deadly cold.

"Don't want to go, eh?" exclaimed Mason, pausing as he heard this.
"It would hurt your pride, would it, to have 'em know? Well, then,
supposing you just answer some of the things I want to know--and come
clean and quick, or off we go--and that without one more moment's
delay! Now, will you answer or won't you?" And again he turned to
confront Clyde, who, with lips trembling and eyes confused and
wavering, nervously and emphatically announced:

"Of course I knew her. Of course I did. Sure! Those letters show that.
But what of it? I didn't kill her. And I didn't go up there with her
with any intention of killing her, either. I didn't. I didn't, I tell
you! It was all an accident. I didn't even want to take her up there.
She wanted me to go--to go away with her somewhere, because--because,
well you know--her letters show. And I was only trying to get her to go
off somewhere by herself, so she would let me alone, because I didn't
want to marry her. That's all. And I took her out there, not to kill
her at all, but to try to persuade her, that's all. And I didn't upset
the boat--at least, I didn't mean to. The wind blew my hat off, and
we--she and I--got up at the same time to reach for it and the boat
upset--that's all. And the side of it hit her on the head. I saw it,
only I was too frightened the way she was struggling about in the water
to go near her, because I was afraid that if I did she might drag me
down. And then she went down. And I swam ashore. And that's the God's
truth!"

His face, as he talked, had suddenly become all flushed, and his hands
also. Yet his eyes were tortured, terrified pools of misery. He was
thinking--but maybe there wasn't any wind that afternoon and maybe
they would find that out. Or the tripod hidden under a log. If they
found that, wouldn't they think he hit her with that? He was wet and
trembling.

But already Mason was beginning to question him again.

"Now, let's see as to this a minute. You say you didn't take her up
there with any intention of killing her?"

"No, sir, I didn't"

"Well, then, how was it that you decided to write your name two
different ways on those registers up there at Big Bittern and Grass
Lake?"

"Because I didn't want any one to know that I was up there with her."

"Oh, I see. Didn't want any scandal in connection with the condition
she was in?"

"No, sir. Yes, sir, that is."

"But you didn't mind if her name was scandalized in case she was found
afterwards?"

"But I didn't know she was going to be drowned," replied Clyde, slyly
and shrewdly, sensing the trap in time.

"But you did know that you yourself weren't coming back, of course. You
knew that, didn't you?"

"Why, no, sir, I didn't know that I wasn't coming back. I thought I
was."

"Pretty clever. Pretty clever," thought Mason to himself, but not
saying so, and then, rapidly: "And so in order to make everything easy
and natural as possible for you to come back, you took your own bag
with you and left hers up there. Is that the way? How about that?"

"But I didn't take it because I was going away. We decided to put our
lunch in it."

"We, or you?"

"We."

"And so you had to carry that big bag in order to take a little lunch
along, eh? Couldn't you have taken it in a paper, or in her bag?"

"Well, her bag was full, and I didn't like to carry anything in a
paper."

"Oh, I see. Too proud and sensitive, eh? But not too proud to carry a
heavy bag all the way, say twelve miles, in the night to Three Mile
Bay, and not ashamed to be seen doing it, either, were you?"

"Well, after she was drowned and I didn't want to be known as having
been up there with her, and had to go along----"

He paused while Mason merely looked at him, thinking of the many,
many questions he wanted to ask him--so many, many more, and which,
as he knew or guessed, would be impossible for him to explain. Yet it
was getting late, and back in the camp were Clyde's as yet unclaimed
belongings--his bag and possibly that suit he had worn that day at Big
Bittern--a gray one as he had heard--not this one. And to catechize him
here this way in the dusk, while it might be productive of much if only
he could continue it long enough, still there was the trip back, and en
route he would have ample time to continue his questionings.

And so, although he disliked much so to do at the moment, he now
concluded with: "Oh, well, I tell you, Griffiths, we'll let you rest
here for the present. It may be that what you are saying is so--I don't
know. I most certainly hope it is, for your sake. At any rate, you go
along there with Mr. Kraut. He'll show you where to go."

And then turning to Swenk and Kraut, he exclaimed: "All right, boys.
I'll tell you how we'll do. It's getting late and we'll have to hurry
a little if we expect to get anywhere yet to-night. Mr. Kraut, suppose
you take this young man down where those other two boats are and wait
there. Just halloo a little as you go along to notify the sheriff and
Sissell that we're ready. And then Swenk and I'll be along in the other
boat as soon as we can."

And so saying and Kraut obeying, he and Swenk proceeded inward through
the gathering dusk to the camp, while Kraut with Clyde went west,
hallooing for the sheriff and his deputy until a response was had.




                               CHAPTER X


The effect of Mason's re-appearance in the camp with the news,
announced first to Frank Harriet, next to Harley Baggott and Grant
Cranston, that Clyde was under arrest--that he actually had confessed
to having been with Roberta at Big Bittern, if not to having killed
her, and that he, Mason, was there with Swenk to take possession of
his property--was sufficient to destroy this pretty outing as by a
breath. For although amazement and disbelief and astounded confusion
were characteristic of the words of all, nevertheless here was Mason
demanding to know where were Clyde's things, and asserting that it was
at Clyde's request only that he was not brought here to identify his
own possessions.

Frank Harriet, the most practical of the group, sensing the truth and
authority of this, at once led the way to Clyde's tent, where Mason
began an examination of the contents of the bag and clothes, while
Grant Cranston, as well as Baggott, aware of Sondra's intense interest
in Clyde, departed first to call Stuart, then Bertine, and finally
Sondra--moving apart from the rest the more secretly to inform her
as to what was then occurring. And she, following the first clear
understanding as to this, turning white and fainting at the news,
falling back in Grant's arms and being carried to her tent, where,
after being restored to consciousness, she exclaimed: "I don't believe
a word of it! It's not true! Why, it couldn't be! That poor boy! Oh,
Clyde! Where is he? Where have they taken him?" But Stuart and Grant,
by no means as emotionally moved, as herself, cautioning her to be
silent. It might be true at that. Supposing it were! The others would
hear, wouldn't they? And supposing it weren't--he could soon prove his
innocence and be released, couldn't he? There was no use in carrying on
like this now.

But then, Sondra in her thoughts going over the bare possibility of
such a thing--a girl killed by Clyde at Big Bittern--himself arrested
and being taken off in this way--and she thus publicly--or at least by
this group--known to be so interested in him,--her parents to know, the
public itself to know--maybe----

But Clyde must be innocent. It must be all a mistake. And then her mind
turning back and thinking of that news of the drowned girl she had
first heard over the telephone there at the Harriets'. And then Clyde's
whiteness--his illness--his all but complete collapse. Oh, no!--not
that! Yet his delay in coming from Lycurgus until the Friday before.
His failure to write from there. And then, the full horror of the
charge returning, as suddenly collapsing again, lying perfectly still
and white while Grant and the others agreed among themselves that the
best thing to be done was to break up the camp, either now or early in
the morning, and depart for Sharon.

And Sondra returning to consciousness after a time tearfully announcing
that she must get out of here at once, that she couldn't "endure this
place," and begging Bertine and all the others to stay close to her
and say nothing about her having fainted and cried, since it would
only create talk. And thinking all the time of how, if this were all
true, she could secure those letters she had written him! Oh, heavens!
For supposing now at this time they should fall into the hands of the
police or the newspapers, and be published? And yet moved by her love
for him and for the first time in her young life shaken to the point
where the grim and stern realities of life were thrust upon her gay and
vain notice.

And so it was immediately arranged that she leave with Stuart, Bertine
and Grant for the Metissic Inn at the eastern end of the Lake, since
from there, at dawn, according to Baggott, they might leave for
Albany--and so, in a roundabout way for Sharon.

In the meantime, Mason, after obtaining possession of all Clyde's
belongings here, quickly making his way west to Little Fish Inlet and
Three Mile Bay, stopping only for the first night at a farmhouse and
arriving at Three Mile Bay late on Tuesday night. Yet not without, en
route, catechizing Clyde as he had planned, the more particularly since
in going through his effects in the tent at the camp he had not found
the gray suit said to have been worn by Clyde at Big Bittern.

And Clyde, troubled by this new development, denying that he had worn a
gray suit and insisting that the suit he had on was the one he had worn.

"But wasn't it thoroughly soaked?"

"Yes."

"Well, then, where was it cleaned and pressed afterward?"

"In Sharon."

"In Sharon?"

"Yes, sir."

"By a tailor there?"

"Yes, sir."

"What tailor?"

Alas, Clyde could not remember.

"Then you wore it crumpled and wet, did you, from Big Bittern to
Sharon?"

"Yes, sir."

"And no one noticed it, of course."

"Not that I remember--no."

"Not that you remember, eh? Well, we'll see about that later," and
deciding that unquestionably Clyde was a plotter and a murderer. Also
that eventually he could make Clyde show where he had hidden the suit
or had had it cleaned.

Next there was the straw hat found on the lake. What about that? By
admitting that the wind had blown his hat off, Clyde had intimated that
he had worn a hat on the lake, but not necessarily the straw hat found
on the water. But now Mason was intent on establishing within hearing
of these witnesses, the ownership of the hat found on the water as well
as the existence of a second hat worn later.

"That straw hat of yours that you say the wind blew in the water? You
didn't try to get that either at the time, did you?"

"No, sir."

"Didn't think of it, I suppose, in the excitement?"

"No, sir."

"But just the same, you had another straw hat when you went down
through the woods there. Where did you get that one?"

And Clyde, trapped and puzzled by this, pausing for the fraction of a
second, frightened and wondering whether or not it could be proved that
this second straw hat he was wearing was the one he had worn through
the woods. Also whether the one on the water had been purchased in
Utica, as it had. And then deciding to lie. "But I didn't have another
straw hat." Without paying any attention to that, Mason reached over
and took the straw hat on Clyde's head and proceeded to examine the
lining with its imprint--Stark & Company, Lycurgus.

"This one has a lining, I see. Bought this in Lycurgus, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"When?"

"Oh, back in June."

"But still you're sure now it's not the one you wore down through the
woods that night?"

"No, sir."

"Well, where was it then?"

And Clyde once more pausing like one in a trap and thinking: My God!
How am I to explain this now? Why did I admit that the one on the lake
was mine? Yet, as instantly recalling that whether he had denied it or
not, there were those at Grass Lake and Big Bittern who would remember
that he had worn a straw hat on the lake, of course.

"Where was it then?" insisted Mason.

And Clyde at last saying: "Oh, I was up here once before and wore it
then. I forgot it when I went down the last time but I found it again
the other day."

"Oh, I see. Very convenient, I must say." He was beginning to believe
that he had a very slippery person to deal with indeed--that he must
think of his traps more shrewdly, and at the same time determining to
summon the Cranstons and every member of the Bear Lake party in order
to discover whether any recalled Clyde not wearing a straw hat on
his arrival this time, also whether he had left a straw hat the time
before. He was lying, of course, and he would catch him.

And so no real peace for Clyde at any time between there and Bridgeburg
and the county jail. For however much he might refuse to answer, still
Mason was forever jumping at him with such questions as: Why was it if
all you wanted to do was to eat lunch on shore that you had to row all
the way down to that extreme south end of the lake when it isn't nearly
so attractive there as it is at other points? And: Where was it that
you spent the rest of that afternoon--surely not just there? And then,
jumping back to Sondra's letters discovered in his bag. How long had he
known her? Was he as much in love with her as she appeared to be with
him? Wasn't it because of her promise to marry him in the fall that he
had decided to kill Miss Alden?

But while Clyde vehemently troubled to deny this last charge, still
for the most part he gazed silently and miserably before him with his
tortured and miserable eyes.

And then a most wretched night spent in the garret of a farmhouse at
the west end of the lake, and on a pallet on the floor, while Sissell,
Swenk and Kraut, gun in hand, in turn kept watch over him, and Mason
and the sheriff and the others slept below stairs. And some natives,
because of information distributed somehow, coming toward morning to
inquire: "We hear the feller that killed the girl over to Big Bittern
is here--is that right?" And then waiting to see them off at dawn in
the Fords secured by Mason.

And again at Little Fish Inlet as well as Three Mile Bay, actual
crowds--farmers, store-keepers, summer residents, woodsmen,
children--all gathered because of word telephoned on ahead apparently.
And at the latter place, Burleigh, Heit and Newcomb, who, because of
previously telephoned information, had brought before one Gabriel
Gregg, a most lanky and crusty and meticulous justice of the peace, all
of the individuals from Big Bittern necessary to identify him fully.
And now Mason, before this local justice, charging Clyde with the death
of Roberta and having him properly and legally held as a material
witness to be lodged in the county jail at Bridgeburg. And then taking
him, along with Burton, the sheriff and his deputies, to Bridgeburg,
where he was promptly locked up.

And once there, Clyde throwing himself on the iron cot and holding
his head in a kind of agony of despair. It was three o'clock in the
morning, and just outside the jail as they approached he had seen a
crowd of at least five hundred--noisy, jeering, threatening. For had
not the news been forwarded that because of his desire to marry a rich
girl he had most brutally assaulted and murdered a young and charming
working-girl whose only fault had been that she loved him too well.
There had been hard and threatening cries of "There he is, the dirty
bastard! You'll swing for this yet, you young devil, wait and see!"
This from a young woodsman not unlike Swenk in type--a hard, destroying
look in his fierce young eyes, leaning out from the crowd. And worse, a
waspish type of small-town slum girl, dressed in a gingham dress, who
in the dim light of the arcs, had leaned forward to cry: "Lookit, the
dirty little sneak--the murderer! You thought you'd get away with it,
didnja?"

And Clyde, crowding closer to Sheriff Slack, and thinking: Why, they
actually think I did kill her! And they may even lynch me! But so weary
and confused and debased and miserable that at the sight of the outer
steel jail door swinging open to receive him, he actually gave vent to
a sigh of relief because of the protection it afforded.

But once in his cell, suffering none the less without cessation the
long night through, from thoughts--thoughts concerning all that had
just gone. Sondra! the Griffiths! Bertine. All those people in Lycurgus
when they should hear in the morning. His mother eventually, everybody.
Where was Sondra now? For Mason had told her, of course, and all those
others, when he had gone back to secure his things. And they knew him
now for what he was--a plotter of murder! Only, only, if somebody could
only know how it had all come about! If Sondra, his mother, any one,
could truly see!

Perhaps if he were to explain all to this man Mason now, before it all
went any further, exactly how it all had happened. But that meant a
true explanation as to his plot, his real original intent, that camera,
his swimming away. That unintended blow--(and who was going to believe
him as to that)--his hiding the tripod afterwards. Besides once all
that was known would he not be done for just the same in connection
with Sondra, the Griffiths--everybody. And very likely prosecuted and
executed for murder just the same. Oh, heavens--murder. And to be
tried for that now; this terrible crime against her proved. They would
electrocute him just the same--wouldn't they? And then the full horror
of that coming upon him,--death, possibly--and for murder--he sat there
quite still. Death! God! If only he had not left those letters written
him by Roberta and his mother in his room there at Mrs. Peyton's. If
only he had removed his trunk to another room, say, before he left. Why
hadn't he thought of that? Yet as instantly thinking, might not that
have been a mistake, too, being seemingly a suspicious thing to have
done then? But how came they to know where he was from and what his
name was? Then, as instantly returning in mind to the letters in the
trunk. For, as he now recalled, in one of those letters from his mother
she had mentioned that affair in Kansas City, and Mason would come to
know of that. If only he had destroyed them. Roberta's, his mother's,
all! Why hadn't he? But not being able to answer why--just an insane
desire to keep things maybe--anything that related to him--a kindness,
a tenderness toward him. If only he had not worn that second straw
hat--had not met those three men in the woods! God! He might have known
they would be able to trace him in some way. If only he had gone on in
that wood at Bear Lake, taking his suit case and Sondra's letters with
him. Perhaps, perhaps, who knows, in Boston, or New York, or somewhere
he might have hidden away.

Unstrung and agonized, he was unable to sleep at all, but walked back
and forth, or sat on the side of the hard and strange cot, thinking,
thinking. And at dawn, a bony, aged, rheumy jailer, in a baggy, worn,
blue uniform, bearing a black, iron tray, on which was a tinful of
coffee, some bread and a piece of ham with one egg. And looking
curiously and yet somehow indifferently at Clyde, while he forced it
through an aperture only wide and high enough for its admission, though
Clyde wanted nothing at all.

And then later Kraut and Sissell and Swenk, and eventually the sheriff
himself, each coming separately, to look in and say:

"Well, Griffiths, how are you this morning?" or, "Hello, anything we
can do for you?", while their eyes showed the astonishment, disgust,
suspicion or horror with which his assumed crime had filled them.
Yet, even in the face of that, having one type of interest and even
sycophantic pride in his presence here. For was he not a Griffiths--a
member of the well-known social group of the big central cities to the
south of here. Also the same to them, as well as to the enormously
fascinated public outside, as a trapped and captured animal, taken in
their legal net by their own superlative skill and now held as witness
to it? And with the newspapers and people certain to talk, enormous
publicity for them--their pictures in the papers as well as his, their
names persistently linked with his.

And Clyde, looking at them between the bars, attempted to be civil,
since he was now in their hands and they could do with him as they
would.




                              CHAPTER XI


In connection with the autopsy and its results there was a decided
set-back. For while the joint report of the five doctors showed: "An
injury to the mouth and nose; the tip of the nose appears to have
been slightly flattened, the lips swollen, one front tooth slightly
loosened, and an abrasion of the mucous membrane within the lips"--all
agreed that these injuries were by no means fatal. The chief injury was
to the skull (the very thing which Clyde in his first confession had
maintained), which appeared to have been severely bruised by a blow of
"some sharp instrument," unfortunately in this instance, because of
the heaviness of the blow of the boat, "signs of fracture and internal
hæmorrhage which might have produced death."

But--the lungs when placed in water, sinking--an absolute proof that
Roberta could not have been dead when thrown into the water, but
alive and drowning, as Clyde had maintained. And no other signs of
violence or struggle, although her arms and fingers appeared to be
set in such a way as to indicate that she might have been reaching or
seeking to grasp something. The wale of the boat? Could that be? Might
Clyde's story, after all, conceal a trace of truth? Certainly these
circumstances seemed to favor him a little. Yet as Mason and the others
agreed, all these circumstances most distinctly seemed to prove that
although he might not have slain her outright before throwing her into
the water, none the less he had struck her and then had thrown her,
perhaps unconscious, into the water.

But with what? If he could but make Clyde say that!

And then an inspiration! He would take Clyde and, although the law
specifically guaranteed accused persons against compulsions, compel him
to retrace the scenes of his crime. And although he might not be able
to make him commit himself in any way, still, once on the ground and
facing the exact scene of his crime, his actions might reveal something
of the whereabouts of the suit, perhaps, or possibly some instrument
with which he had struck her.

And in consequence, on the third day following Clyde's incarceration,
a second visit to Big Bittern, with Kraut, Heit, Mason, Burton,
Burleigh, Earl Newcomb and Sheriff Slack as his companions, and a slow
re-canvassing of all the ground he had first traveled on that dreadful
day. And with Kraut, following instructions from Mason, "playing up" to
him, in order to ingratiate himself into his good graces, and possibly
cause him to make a clean breast of it. For Kraut was to argue that the
evidence, so far was so convincing that you "never would get a jury to
believe that you didn't do it," but that, "if you would talk right out
to Mason, he could do more for you with the judge and the governor than
any one could--get you off, maybe, with life or twenty years, while
this way you're likely to get the chair, sure."

Yet Clyde, because of that same fear that had guided him at Bear Lake,
maintaining a profound silence. For why should he say that he had
struck her, when he had not--intentionally at least? Or with what,
since no thought of the camera had come up as yet.

At the lake, after definite measurements by the county surveyor as to
the distance from the spot where Roberta had drowned to the spot where
Clyde had landed, Earl Newcomb suddenly returning to Mason with an
important discovery. For under a log not so far from the spot at which
Clyde had stood to remove his wet clothes, the tripod he had hidden,
a little rusty and damp, but of sufficient weight, as Mason and all
these others were now ready to believe, to have delivered the blow upon
Roberta's skull which had felled her and so make it possible for him to
carry her to the boat and later drown her. Yet, confronted with this
and turning paler than before, Clyde denying that he had a camera or a
tripod with him, although Mason was instantly deciding that he would
re-question all witnesses to find out whether any recalled seeing a
tripod or camera in Clyde's possession.

And before the close of this same day learning from the guide who had
driven Clyde and Roberta over, as well as the boatman who had seen
Clyde drop his bag into the boat, and a young waitress at Grass Lake
who had seen Clyde and Roberta going out from the inn to the station on
the morning of their departure from Grass Lake, that all now recalled a
"yellow bundle of sticks," fastened to his bag which must have been the
very tripod.

And then Burton Burleigh deciding that it might not really have been
the tripod, after all with which he had struck her but possibly and
even probably the somewhat heavier body of the camera itself, since
an edge of it would explain the wound on the top of the head and the
flat Surface would well explain the general wounds on her face. And
because of this conclusion, without any knowledge on the part of
Clyde, however, Mason securing divers from among the woodsmen of the
region and setting them to diving in the immediate vicinity of the
spot where Roberta's body had been found, with the result that after
an entire day's diving on the part of six--and because of a promised
and substantial reward, one Jack Bogart arose with the very camera
which Clyde, as the boat had turned over, had let fall. Worse, after
examination it proved to contain a roll of films, which upon being
submitted to an expert chemist for development, showed finally to be
a series of pictures of Roberta, made on shore--one sitting on a log,
a second posed by the side of the boat on shore, a third reaching up
toward the branches of a tree--all very dim and water-soaked but still
decipherable. And the exact measurements of the broadest side of the
camera corresponding in a general way to the length and breadth of the
wounds upon Roberta's face, which caused it now to seem positive that
they had discovered the implement wherewith Clyde had delivered the
blows.

Yet no trace of blood upon the camera itself. And none upon the side
or bottom of the boat, which had been brought to Bridgeburg for
examination. And none upon the rug which had lain in the bottom of the
boat.

In Burton Burleigh there existed as sly a person as might have been
found in a score of such backwoods counties as this, and soon he found
himself meditating on how easy it would be, supposing irrefragable
evidence were necessary, for him or any one to cut a finger and let it
bleed on the rug or the side of the boat or the edge of the camera.
Also, how easy to take from the head of Roberta two or three hairs and
thread them between the sides of the camera, or about the row-lock to
which her veil had been attached. And after due and secret meditation,
he actually deciding to visit the Lutz Brothers morgue and secure a few
threads of Roberta's hair. For he himself was convinced that Clyde had
murdered the girl in cold blood. And for want of a bit of incriminating
proof, was such a young, silent, vain crook as this to be allowed to
escape? Not if he himself had to twine the hairs about the rowlock or
inside the lid of the camera, and then call Mason's attention to them
as something overlooked!

And in consequence, upon the same day that Heit and Mason were
personally re-measuring the wounds upon Roberta's face and head,
Burleigh slyly threading two of Roberta's hairs in between the door and
the lens of the camera, so that Mason and Heit a little while later
unexpectedly coming upon them, and wondering why they had not seen them
before--nevertheless accepting them immediately as conclusive evidence
of Clyde's guilt. Indeed, Mason thereupon announcing that in so far as
he was concerned, his case was complete. He had truly traced out every
step in this crime and if need be was prepared to go to trial on the
morrow.

Yet, because of the very completeness of the testimony, deciding for
the present, at least, not to say anything in connection with the
camera--to seal, if possible, the mouth of every one who knew. For,
assuming that Clyde persisted in denying that he had carried a camera,
or that his own lawyer should be unaware of the existence of such
evidence, then how damning in court, and out of a clear sky, to produce
this camera, these photographs of Roberta made by him, and the proof
that the very measurements of one side of the camera coincided with the
size of the wounds upon her face! How complete! How incriminating!

Also since he personally having gathered the testimony was the one best
fitted to present it, he decided to communicate with the governor of
the state for the purpose of obtaining a special term of the Supreme
Court for this district, with its accompanying special session of the
local grand jury, which would then be subject to his call at any time.
For with this granted, he would be able to impanel a grand jury and
in the event of a true bill being returned against Clyde, then within
a month or six weeks, proceed to trial. Strictly to himself, however,
he kept the fact that in view of his own approaching nomination in
the ensuing November election this should all prove most opportune,
since in the absence of any such special term the case could not
possibly be tried before the succeeding regular January term of the
Supreme Court, by which time he would be out of office and although
possibly elected to the local judgeship still not able to try the case
in person. And in view of the state of public opinion, which was most
bitterly and vigorously anti-Clyde, a quick trial would seem fair and
logical to every one in this local world. For why delay? Why permit
such a criminal to sit about and speculate on some plan of escape? And
especially when his trial by him, Mason, was certain to rebound to his
legal and political and social fame the country over.




                              CHAPTER XII


And then out of the north woods a crime sensation of the first
magnitude, with all of those intriguingly colorful, and yet morally
and spiritually atrocious, elements--love, romance, wealth, poverty,
death. And at once picturesque accounts of where and how Clyde had
lived in Lycurgus, with whom he had been connected, how he had managed
to conceal his relations with one girl while obviously planning to
elope with another--being wired for and published by that type of
editor so quick to sense the national news value of crimes such as
this. And telegrams of inquiry pouring in from New York, Chicago,
Boston, Philadelphia, San Francisco and other large American cities
east and west, either to Mason direct or the representatives of the
Associated or United Press in this area, asking for further and more
complete details of the crime. Who was this beautiful wealthy girl with
whom it was said this Griffiths was in love? Where did she live? What
were Clyde's exact relations with her? Yet Mason, over-awed by the
wealth of the Finchleys and the Griffiths, loath to part with Sondra's
name, simply asserting for the present that she was the daughter of a
very wealthy manufacturer in Lycurgus, whose name he did not care to
furnish--yet not hesitating to show the bundle of letters carefully
tied with a ribbon by Clyde.

But Roberta's letters on the other hand being described in
detail,--even excerpts of some of them--the more poetic and gloomy
being furnished the Press for use, for who was there to protect her.
And on their publication a wave of hatred for Clyde as well as a wave
of pity for her--the poor, lonely, country girl who had had no one but
him--and he cruel, faithless,--a murderer even. Was not hanging too
good for him? For en-route to and from Bear Lake, as well as since,
Mason had pored over these letters. And because of certain intensely
moving passages relating to her home life, her gloomy distress as to
her future, her evident loneliness and weariness of heart, he had
been greatly moved, and later had been able to convey this feeling
to others--his wife and Heit and the local newspapermen. So much so
that the latter in particular were sending from Bridgeburg vivid, if
somewhat distorted, descriptions of Clyde, his silence, his moodiness,
and his hard-heartedness.

And then a particularly romantic young reporter from _The Star_, of
Utica arriving at the home of the Aldens, there was immediately given
to the world a fairly accurate picture of the weary and defeated Mrs.
Alden, who, too exhausted to protest or complain, merely contented
herself with a sincere and graphic picture of Roberta's devotion
to her parents, her simple ways of living, her modesty, morality,
religious devotion--how once the local pastor of the Methodist Church
had said that she was the brightest and prettiest and kindest girl he
had ever known, and how for years before leaving home she had been
as her mother's own right hand. And that undoubtedly because of her
poverty and loneliness in Lycurgus, she had been led to listen to the
honeyed words of this scoundrel, who, coming to her with promises of
marriage, had lured her into this unhallowed and, in her case, all but
unbelievable relationship which had led to her death. For she was good
and pure and sweet and kind always. "And to think that she is dead. I
can't believe it."

It was so that her mother was quoted.

"Only Monday a week ago she was about--a little depressed, I thought,
but smiling, and for some reason which I thought odd at the time went
all over the place Monday afternoon and evening, looking at things and
gathering some flowers. And then she came over and put her arms around
me and said: 'I wish I were a little girl again, mamma, and that you
would take me in your arms and rock me like you used to.' And I said,
'Why, Roberta, what makes you so sad to-night, anyhow?' And she said,
'Oh, nothing. You know I'm going back in the morning. And somehow I
feel a little foolish about it to-night.' And to think that it was this
trip that was in her mind. I suppose she had a premonition that all
would not work out as she had planned. And to think he struck my little
girl, she who never could harm anything, not even a fly." And here, in
spite of herself, and with the saddened Titus in the background, she
began to cry silently.

But from the Griffiths and other members of this local social world,
complete and almost unbreakable silence. For in so far as Samuel
Griffiths was concerned, it was impossible for him at first either to
grasp or believe that Clyde could be capable of such a deed. What! That
bland and rather timid and decidedly gentlemanly youth, as he saw him,
charged with murder? Being rather far from Lycurgus at the time--Upper
Saranac--where he was reached with difficulty by Gilbert,--he was
almost unprepared to think, let alone act. Why, how impossible! There
must be some mistake here. They must have confused Clyde with some one
else.

Nevertheless, Gilbert proceeding to explain that it was unquestionably
true, since the girl had worked in the factory under Clyde, and the
district attorney at Bridgeburg with whom he had already been in
communication had assured him that he was in possession of letters
which the dead girl had written to Clyde and that Clyde did not attempt
to deny them.

"Very well, then," countered Samuel. "Don't act hastily, and above all,
don't talk to any one outside of Smillie or Gotboy until I see you.
Where's Brookhart?"--referring to Darrah Brookhart, of counsel for
Griffiths & Company.

"He's in Boston to-day," returned his son. "I think he told me last
Friday that he wouldn't be back here until Monday or Tuesday."

"Well, wire him that I want him to return at once. Incidentally, have
Smillie see if he can arrange with the editors of _The Star_ and
_Beacon_ down there to suspend any comment until I get back. I'll be
down in the morning. Also tell him to get in the car and run up there"
(Bridgeburg) "to-day if he can. I must know from first hand all there
is to know. Have him see Clyde if he can, also this district attorney,
and bring down any news that he can get. And all the newspapers. I want
to see for myself what has been published."

And at approximately the same time, in the home of the Finchleys on
Fourth Lake, Sondra herself, after forty-eight hours of most macerating
thoughts spent brooding on the astounding climax which had put a
period to all her girlish fancies in regard to Clyde, deciding at last
to confess all to her father, to whom she was more drawn than to her
mother. And accordingly approaching him in the library, where usually
he sat after dinner, reading or considering his various affairs. But
having come within earshot of him, beginning to sob, for truly she was
stricken in the matter of her love for Clyde, as well as her various
vanities and illusions in regard to her own high position, the scandal
that was about to fall on her and her family. Oh, what would her mother
say now, after all her warnings? And her father? And Gilbert Griffiths
and his affianced bride? And the Cranstons, who except for her
influence over Bertine, would never have been drawn into this intimacy
with Clyde?

Her sobs arresting her father's attention, he at once paused to look
up, the meaning of this quite beyond him. Yet instantly sensing
something very dreadful, gathering her up in his arms, and consolingly
murmuring: "There, there! For heaven's sake, what's happened to my
little girl now? Who's done what and why?" And then, with a decidedly
amazed and shaken expression, listening to a complete confession of all
that had occurred thus far--the first meeting with Clyde, her interest
in him, the attitude of the Griffiths, her letters, her love, and then
this--this awful accusation and arrest. And if it were true! And her
name were used, and her daddy's! And once more she fell to weeping as
though her heart would break, yet knowing full well that in the end
she would have her father's sympathy and forgiveness, whatever his
subsequent suffering and mood.

And at once Finchley, accustomed to peace and order and tact and sense
in his own home, looking at his daughter in an astounded and critical
and yet not uncharitable way, and exclaiming: "Well, well, of all
things! Well, I'll be damned! I am amazed, my dear! I am astounded!
This is a little too much, I must say. Accused of murder! And with
letters of yours in your own handwriting, you say, in his possession,
or in the hands of this district attorney, for all we know by now. Tst!
Tst! Tst! Damned foolish, Sondra, damned foolish! Your mother has been
talking to me for months about this, and you know I was taking your
word for it against hers. And now see what's happened! Why couldn't you
have told me or listened to her? Why couldn't you have talked all this
over with me before going so far? I thought we understood each other,
you and I. Your mother and I have always acted for your own good,
haven't we? You know that. Besides, I certainly thought you had better
sense. Really, I did. But a murder case, and you connected with it! My
God!"

He got up, a handsome blond man in carefully made clothes, and paced
the floor, snapping his fingers irritably, while Sondra continued to
weep. Suddenly, ceasing his walking, he turned again toward her and
resumed with: "But, there, there! There's no use crying over it. Crying
isn't going to fix it. Of course, we may be able to live it down in
some way. I don't know. I don't know. I can't guess what effect this is
likely to have on you personally. But one thing is sure. We do want to
know something about those letters."

And forthwith, and while Sondra wept on, he proceeded first to call his
wife in order to explain the nature of the blow--a social blow that
was to lurk in her memory as a shadow for the rest of her years--and
next to call up Legare Atterbury, lawyer, state senator, chairman of
the Republican State Central Committee and his own private counsel for
years past, to whom he explained the amazing difficulty in which his
daughter now found herself. Also to inquire what was the most advisable
thing to be done.

"Well, let me see," came from Atterbury, "I wouldn't worry very much if
I were you, Mr. Finchley. I think I can do something to straighten this
out for you before any real public damage is done. Now, let me see. Who
is the district attorney of Cataraqui County, anyhow? I'll have to look
that up and get in touch with him and call you back. But never mind, I
promise you I'll be able to do something--keep the letters out of the
papers, anyhow. Maybe out of the trial--I'm not sure--but I am sure I
can fix it so that her name will not be mentioned, so don't worry."

And then Atterbury in turn calling up Mason, whose name he found in his
lawyers' directory, and at once arranging for a conference with him,
since Mason seemed to think that the letters were most vital to his
case, although he was so much overawed by Atterbury's voice that he was
quick to explain that by no means had he planned as yet to use publicly
the name of Sondra or the letters either, but rather to reserve their
actuality for the private inspection of the grand jury, unless Clyde
should choose to confess and avoid a trial.

But Atterbury, after referring back to Finchley and finding him opposed
to any use of the letters whatsoever, or Sondra's name either, assuring
him that on the morrow or the day after he would himself proceed to
Bridgeburg with some plans and political information which might cause
Mason to think twice before he so much as considered referring to
Sondra in any public way.

And then after due consideration by the Finchley family, it was
decided that at once, and without explanation or apology to any one,
Mrs. Finchley, Stuart and Sondra should leave for the Maine coast or
any place satisfactory to them. Finchley himself proposed to return
to Lycurgus and Albany. It was not wise for any of them to be about
where they could be reached by reporters or questioned by friends. And
forthwith, a hegira of the Finchleys to Narragansett, where under the
name of Wilson they secluded themselves for the next six weeks. Also,
and because of the same cause the immediate removal of the Cranstons
to one of the Thousand Islands, where there was a summer colony not
entirely unsatisfactory to their fancy. But on the part of the Baggotts
and the Harriets, the contention that they were not sufficiently
incriminated to bother and so remaining exactly where they were at
Twelfth Lake. But all talking of Clyde and Sondra--this horrible crime
and the probable social destruction of all those who had in any way
been thus innocently defiled by it.

And in the interim, Smillie, as directed by Griffiths, proceeding to
Bridgeburg, and after two long hours with Mason, calling at the jail
to see Clyde. And because of authorization from Mason being permitted
to see him quite alone in his cell. Smillie having explained that it
was not the intention of the Griffiths to try to set up any defense for
Clyde, but rather to discover whether under the circumstances there was
a possibility for a defense, Mason had urged upon him the wisdom of
persuading Clyde to confess, since, as he insisted, there was not the
slightest doubt as to his guilt, and a trial would but cost the county
money without result to Clyde--whereas if he chose to confess, there
might be some undeveloped reasons for clemency--at any rate, a great
social scandal prevented from being aired in the papers.

And thereupon Smillie proceeding to Clyde in his cell where brooding
most darkly and hopelessly he was wondering how to do. Yet at the
mere mention of Smillie's name shrinking as though struck. The
Griffiths--Samuel Griffiths and Gilbert! Their personal representative.
And now what would he say? For no doubt, as he now argued with himself,
Smillie, having talked with Mason, would think him guilty. And what
was he to say now? What sort of a story tell--the truth or what? But
without much time to think, for even while he was trying to do so
Smillie had been ushered into his presence. And then moistening his dry
lips with his tongue, he could only achieve, "Why, how do you do, Mr.
Smillie?" to which the latter replied, with a mock geniality, "Why,
hello, Clyde, certainly sorry to see you tied up in a place like this."
And then continuing: "The papers and the district attorney over here
are full of a lot of stuff about some trouble you're in, but I suppose
there can't be much to it--there must be some mistake, of course. And
that's what I'm up here to find out. Your uncle telephoned me this
morning that I was to come up and see you to find out how they come to
be holding you. Of course, you can understand how they feel down there.
So they wanted me to come up and get the straight of it so as to get
the charge dismissed, if possible--so now if you'll just let me know
the ins and outs of this--you know--that is----"

He paused there, confident because of what the district attorney had
just told him, as well as Clyde's peculiarly nervous and recessive
manner, that he would not have very much that was exculpatory to
reveal.

And Clyde, after moistening his lips once more, beginning with: "I
suppose things do look pretty bad for me, Mr. Smillie. I didn't think
at the time that I met Miss Alden that I would ever get into such a
scrape as this. But I didn't kill her, and that's the God's truth.
I never even wanted to kill her or take her up to that lake in the
first place. And that's the truth, and that's what I told the district
attorney. I know he has some letters from her to me, but they only show
that she wanted me to go away with her--not that I wanted to go with
her at all----"

He paused, hoping that Smillie would stamp this with his approval
of faith. And Smillie, noting the agreement between his and Mason's
assertions, yet anxious to placate him, returned: "Yes, I know. He was
just showing them to me."

"I knew he would," continued Clyde, weakly. "But you know how it is
sometimes, Mr. Smillie," his voice, because of his fears that the
sheriff or Kraut were listening, pitched very low. "A man can get in
a jam with a girl when he never even intended to at first. You know
that yourself. I did like Roberta at first, and that's the truth, and
I did get in with her just as those letters show. But you know that
rule they have down there, that no one in charge of a department can
have anything to do with any of the women under him. Well, that's what
started all the trouble for me, I guess. I was afraid to let any one
know about it in the first place, you see."

"Oh, I see."

And so by degrees, and growing less and less tense as he proceeded,
since Smillie appeared to be listening with sympathy, he now outlined
most of the steps of his early intimacy with Roberta, together with his
present defense. But with no word as to the camera, or the two hats or
the lost suit, which things were constantly and enormously troubling
him. How could he ever explain these, really? And with Smillie at the
conclusion of this and because of what Mason had told him, asking: "But
what about those two hats, Clyde? This man over here was telling me
that you admit to having two straw hats--the one found on the lake and
the one you wore away from there."

And Clyde, forced to say something, yet not knowing what, replying:
"But they're wrong as to my wearing a straw hat away from there, Mr.
Smillie, it was a cap."

"I see. But still you did have a straw hat up at Bear Lake, he tells
me."

"Yes, I had one there, but as I told him, that was the one I had with
me when I went up to the Cranstons' the first time. I told him that. I
forgot it and left it there."

"Oh, I see. But now there was something about a suit--a gray one, I
believe--that he says you were seen wearing up there but that he can't
find now? Were you wearing one?"

"No. I was wearing the blue suit I had on when I came down here.
They've taken that away now and given me this one."

"But he says that you say you had it dry-cleaned at Sharon, but that he
can't find any one there who knows anything about it. How about that?
Did you have it dry-cleaned there?"

"Yes, sir."

"By whom?"

"Well, I can't just remember now. But I think I can find the man if I
were to go up there again--he's near the depot," but at the same time
looking down and away from Smillie.

And then Smillie, like Mason before him, proceeding to ask about the
bag in the boat, and whether it had not been possible, if he could swim
to shore with his shoes and suit on, for him to have swam to Roberta
and assisted her to cling to the overturned boat. And Clyde explaining,
as before, that he was afraid of being dragged down, but adding now,
for the first time, that he had called to her to hang on to the boat,
whereas previously he had said that the boat had drifted away from
them. And Smillie recalled that Mason had told him this. Also, in
connection with Clyde's story of the wind blowing his hat off, Mason
had said he could prove by witnesses, as well as the U. S. Government
reports, that there was not a breath of air stirring on that most
halcyon day. And so, plainly, Clyde was lying. His story was too thin.
Yet Smillie, not wishing to embarrass him, kept saying: "Oh, I see,"
or, "To be sure," or "That's the way it was, was it?"

And then finally asking about the marks on Roberta's face and head. For
Mason had called his attention to them and insisted that no one blow
from a boat would make both abrasions. But Clyde sure that the boat
had only struck her once and that all the bruises had come from that
or else he could not guess from what they had come. But then beginning
to see how hopeless was all this explanation. For it was so plain from
his restless, troubled manner that Smillie did not believe him. Quite
obviously he considered his not having aided Roberta as dastardly--a
thin excuse for letting her die.

And so, too weary and disheartened to lie more, finally ceasing. And
Smillie, too sorry and disturbed to wish to cathechize or confuse him
further, fidgeting and fumbling and finally declaring: "Well, I'm
afraid I'll have to be going now, Clyde. The roads are pretty bad
between here and Sharon. But I've been mighty glad to hear your side
of it. And I'll present it to your uncle just as you have told it to
me. But in the meantime, if I were you, I wouldn't do any more talking
than I could help--not until you hear further from me. I was instructed
to find an attorney up here to handle this case for you, if I could,
but since it's late and Mr. Brookhart, our chief counsel, will be back
to-morrow, I think I'll just wait until I can talk to him. So if you'll
take my advice, you'll just not say anything until you hear from him or
me. Either he'll come or he'll send some one--he'll bring a letter from
me, whoever he is, and then he'll advise you."

And with this parting admonition, leaving Clyde to his thoughts and
himself feeling no least doubt of his guilt and that nothing less than
the Griffiths' millions, if so they chose to spend them, could save him
from a fate which was no doubt due him.




                             CHAPTER XIII


And then on the following morning Samuel Griffiths, with his own son
Gilbert standing by, in the large drawing room of their Wykeagy Avenue
mansion, listening to Smillie's report of his conference with Clyde
and Mason. And Smillie reporting all he had heard and seen. And with
Gilbert Griffiths, unbelievably shaken and infuriated by all this,
exclaiming at one point:

"Why, the little devil! The little beast! But what did I tell you, dad?
Didn't I warn you against bringing him on?"

And Samuel Griffiths after meditating on this reference to his earlier
sympathetic folly now giving Gilbert a most suggestive and intensely
troubled look, which said: Are we here to discuss the folly of my
original, if foolish, good intentions, or the present crisis? And
Gilbert thinking: The murderer! And that wretched little show-off,
Sondra Finchley, trying to make something of him in order to spite me,
Gilbert, principally, and so getting herself smirched. The little fool!
But it served her right. She would get her share of this now. Only it
would cause him and his father and all of them infinite trouble also.
For was this not an ineradicable stain which was likely to defile
all--himself, his fiancée, Bella, Myra, his parents--and perhaps cost
them their position here in Lycurgus society? The tragedy! Maybe an
execution! And in this family!

Yet Samuel Griffiths, on his part, going back in his mind to all that
had occurred since Clyde had arrived in Lycurgus.

His being left to work in that basement at first and ignored by the
family. Left to his own devices for fully eight months. Might not that
have been at least a contributing cause to all this horror? And then
being put over all those girls! Was not that a mistake? He could see
all this now clearly, although by no means condoning Clyde's deed in
any way--far from it. The wretchedness of such a mind as that--the
ungoverned and carnal desires! The uncontrollable brutality of seducing
that girl and then because of Sondra--the pleasant, agreeable little
Sondra--plotting to get rid of her! And now in jail, and offering no
better explanation of all the amazing circumstances, as reported by
Smillie, than that he had not intended to kill her at all--had not even
plotted to do so--that the wind had blown his hat off! How impossibly
weak! And with no suitable explanation for the two hats, or the missing
suit, or of not going to the aid of the drowning girl. And those
unexplained marks on her face. How strongly all these things pointed to
his guilt.

"For God's sake," exclaimed Gilbert, "hasn't he anything better than
that to offer, the little fool!" And Smillie replied that that was all
he could get him to say, and that Mr. Mason was absolutely and quite
dispassionately convinced of his guilt. "Dreadful! Dreadful!" put in
Samuel. "I really can't grasp it yet. I can't! It doesn't seem possible
that any one of my blood could be guilty of such a thing!" And then
getting up and walking the floor in real and crushing distress and
fear. His family! Gilbert and his future! Bella, with all her ambitions
and dreams! And Sondra! And Finchley!

He clinched his hands. He knitted his brows and tightened his lips.
He looked at Smillie, who, immaculate and sleek, showed nevertheless
the immense strain that was on him, shaking his head dismally whenever
Griffiths looked at him.

And then after nearly an hour and a half more of such questioning and
requestioning as to the possibility of some other interpretation than
the data furnished by Smillie would permit, Griffiths, senior, pausing
and declaring: "Well, it does look bad, I must say. Still, in the
face of what you tell me, I can't find it in me to condemn completely
without more knowledge than we have here. There may be some other
facts not as yet come to light--he won't talk, you say, about most
things--some little details we don't know about--some slight excuse of
some kind--for without that this does appear to be a most atrocious
crime. Has Mr. Brookhart got in from Boston?"

"Yes, sir, he's here," replied Gilbert "He telephoned Mr. Smillie."

"Well, have him come out here at two this afternoon to see me. I'm too
tired to talk more about this right now. Tell him all that you have
told me, Smillie. And then come back here with him at two. It may be
that he will have some suggestion to make that will be of value to us,
although just what I can't see. Only one thing I want to say--I hope he
isn't guilty. And I want every proper step taken to discover whether he
is or not, and if not, to defend him to the limit of the law. But no
more than that. No trying to save anybody who is guilty of such a thing
as this--no, no, no!--not even if he is my nephew! Not me! I'm not that
kind of a man! Trouble or no trouble--disgrace or no disgrace--I'll do
what I can to help him if he's innocent--if there's even the faintest
reason for believing so. But guilty? No! Never! If this boy is really
guilty, he'll have to take the consequences. Not a dollar--not a
penny--of my money will I devote to any one who could be guilty of such
a crime, even if he is my nephew!"

And turning and slowly and heavily moving toward the rear staircase,
while Smillie, wide-eyed, gazed after him in awe. The power of him!
The decision of him! The fairness of him in such a deadly crisis! And
Gilbert equally impressed, also sitting and staring. His father was a
man, really. He might be cruelly wounded and distressed, but, unlike
himself, he was neither petty nor revengeful.

And next Mr. Darrah Brookhart, a large, well-dressed, well-fed,
ponderous and cautious corporation lawyer, with one eye half concealed
by a drooping lid and his stomach rather protuberant, giving one the
impression of being mentally if not exactly physically suspended,
balloon-wise, in some highly rarefied atmosphere where he was moved
easily hither and yon by the lightest breath of previous legal
interpretations or decisions of any kind. In the absence of additional
facts, the guilt of Clyde (to him) seemed obvious. Or, waiving that,
as he saw it after carefully listening to Smillie's recounting of all
the suspicious and incriminating circumstances, he would think it very
difficult to construct an even partially satisfactory defense, unless
there were some facts favoring Clyde which had not thus far appeared.
Those two hats, that bag--his slipping away like that. Those letters.
But he would prefer to read them. For upon the face of the data so
far, unquestionably public sentiment would be all against Clyde and in
favor of the dead girl and her poverty and her class, a situation which
made a favorable verdict in such a backwoods county seat as Bridgeburg
almost impossible. For Clyde, although himself poor, was the nephew
of a rich man and hitherto in good standing in Lycurgus society. That
would most certainly tend to prejudice country-born people against
him. It would probably be better to ask for a change of venue so as to
nullify the force of such a prejudice.

On the other hand, without first sending a trained cross-examiner
to Clyde--one, who being about to undertake the defense should be
able to extract the facts from him on the plea that on his truthful
answers depended his life--he would not be able to say whether there
was any hope or not. In his office was a certain Mr. Catchuman, a
very able man, who might be sent on such a mission and on whose final
report one could base a reasonable opinion. However, there were now
various other aspects of such a case as this which, in his estimation,
needed to be carefully looked into and decided upon. For, of course,
as Mr. Griffiths and his son so well knew, in Utica, New York City,
Albany (and now that he came to think of it, more particularly in
Albany, where were two brothers, Canavan & Canavan, most able if
dubious individuals), there were criminal lawyers deeply versed in
the abstrusities and tricks of the criminal law. And any of them--no
doubt--for a sufficient retainer, and irrespective of the primary look
of a situation of this kind, might be induced to undertake such a
defense. And, no doubt, via change of venue, motions, appeals, etc.,
they might and no doubt would be able to delay and eventually effect
an ultimate verdict of something less than death, if such were the
wish of the head of this very important family. On the other hand,
there was the undeniable fact that such a hotly contested trial as this
would most assuredly prove to be would result in an enormous amount of
publicity, and did Mr. Samuel Griffiths want that? For again, under
such circumstances, was it not likely to be said, if most unjustly, of
course, that he was using his great wealth to frustrate justice? The
public was so prejudiced against wealth in such cases. Yet, some sort
of a defense on the part of the Griffiths would certainly be expected
by the public, whether subsequently the same necessity for such defense
was criticized by them or not.

And in consequence, it was now necessary for Mr. Griffiths and his
son to decide how they would prefer to proceed--whether with very
distinguished criminal lawyers such as the two he had just named,
or with less forceful counsel, or none. For, of course, it would be
possible, and that quite inconspicuously, to supply Clyde with a
capable and yet thoroughly conservative trial lawyer--some one residing
and practising in Bridgeburg possibly--whose duty it would be to see
that all blatant and unjustified reference to the family on the part of
the newspapers was minimized.

And so, after three more hours of conference, it was finally decided
by Samuel himself that at once Mr. Brookhart was to despatch his Mr.
Catchuman to Bridgeburg to interview Clyde, and thereafter, whatever
his conclusions as to his guilt or innocence, he was to select from the
local array of legal talent--for the present, anyhow--such a lawyer as
would best represent Clyde fairly. Yet with no assurances of means or
encouragement to do more than extract from Clyde the true details of
his relationship to this charge. And those once ascertained to center
upon such a defense as would most honestly tend to establish only such
facts as were honestly favorable to Clyde--in short, in no way, either
by legal chicane or casuistry or trickery of any kind, to seek to
establish a false innocence and so defeat the ends of justice.




                              CHAPTER XIV


Mr. Catchuman did not prove by any means to be the one to extract
from Clyde anything more than had either Mason or Smillie. Although
shrewd to a degree in piecing together out of the muddled statements
of another such data as seemed most probable, still he was not so
successful in the realm of the emotions, as was necessary in the case
of Clyde. He was too legal, chilling--unemotional. And in consequence,
after grilling Clyde for four long hours one hot July afternoon, he
was eventually compelled to desist with the feeling that as a plotter
of crime Clyde was probably the most arresting example of feeble and
blundering incapacity he had ever met.

For since Smillie's departure Mason had proceeded to the shores of Big
Bittern with Clyde. And there discovered the tripod and camera. Also
listened to more of Clyde's lies. And as he now explained to Catchuman
that, while Clyde denied owning a camera, nevertheless he had proof
that he did own one and had taken it with him when he left Lycurgus.
Yet when confronted with this fact by Catchuman, as the latter now
noticed, Clyde had nothing to say other than that he had not taken a
camera with him and that the tripod found was not the one belonging to
any camera of his--a lie which so irritated Catchuman that he decided
not to argue with him further.

At the same time, however, Brookhart having instructed him that,
whatever his personal conclusions in regard to Clyde, a lawyer of sorts
was indispensable--the charity, if not the honor, of the Griffiths
being this much involved, the western Griffiths, as Brookhart had
already explained to him, having nothing and not being wanted in
the case anyhow--he decided that he must find one before leaving.
In consequence, and without any knowledge of the local political
situation, he proceeded to the office of Ira Kellogg, president of
the Cataraqui County National Bank, who, although Catchuman did not
know it, was high in the councils of the Democratic organization.
And because of his religious and moral views, this same Kellogg was
already highly incensed and irritated by the crime of which Clyde was
accused. On the other hand, however, because as he well knew this case
was likely to pave the way for an additional Republican sweep at the
approaching primaries, he was not blind to the fact that some reducing
opposition to Mason might not be amiss. Fate seemed too obviously to be
favoring the Republican machine in the person of and crime committed by
Clyde.

For since the discovery of this murder, Mason had been basking in
such publicity and even nation-wide notoriety as had not befallen
any district attorney of this region in years and years. Newspaper
correspondents and reporters and illustrators from such distant cities
as Buffalo, Rochester, Chicago, New York and Boston, were already
arriving as everybody knew or saw, to either interview or make sketches
or take photos of Clyde, Mason, the surviving members of the Alden
family, et cetera, while locally Mason was the recipient of undiluted
praise, even the Democratic voters in the county joining with the
Republicans in assuring each other that Mason was all right, that he
was handling this young murderer in the way that he deserved to be
handled, and that neither the wealth of the Griffiths nor of the family
of that rich girl whom he appeared to have been trying to capture, was
influencing this young tribune of the people in the least. He was a
real attorney. He had not "allowed any grass to grow under his feet,
you bet."

Indeed previous to Catchuman's visit, a coroner's jury had been called,
with Mason attending and directing even, the verdict being that the
dead girl had come to her death through a plot devised and executed
by one Clyde Griffiths who was then and there in the county jail of
Bridgeburg and that he be held to await the verdict of the County Grand
Jury to whom his crime was soon to be presented. And Mason, through
an appeal to the Governor, as all now knew was planning to secure a
special sitting of the Supreme Court, which would naturally involve
an immediate session of the County Grand Jury in order to hear the
evidence and either indict or discharge Clyde. And now, Catchuman
arriving to inquire where he was likely to find a local lawyer of real
ability who could be trusted to erect some sort of a defense for Clyde.
And immediately as an offset to all this there popped into Kellogg's
mind the name and reputation of one Hon. Alvin Belknap, of Belknap and
Jephson, of this same city--an individual who had been twice state
senator, three times Democratic assemblyman from this region, and more
recently looked upon by various Democratic politicians as one who would
be favored with higher honors as soon as it was possible to arrange
an issue which would permit the Democrats to enter into local office.
In fact, only three years before, in a contest with Mason for the
district attorneyship, this same Belknap had run closer to victory
than any other candidate on the Democratic ticket. Indeed, so rounded
a man was he politically that this year he had been slated for that
very county judgeship nomination which Mason had in view. And but for
this sudden and most amazing development in connection with Clyde, it
had been quite generally assumed that Belknap, once nominated, would
be elected. And although Mr. Kellogg did not quite trouble to explain
to Catchuman all the complicated details of this very interesting
political situation, he did explain that Mr. Belknap was a very
exceptional man, almost the ideal one, if one were looking for an
opponent to Mason.

And with this slight introduction, Kellogg now offered personally to
conduct Catchuman to Belknap and Jephson's office, just across the way
in the Bowers Block.

And then knocking at Belknap's door, they were admitted by a brisk,
medium-sized and most engaging-looking man of about forty-eight, whose
gray-blue eyes at once fixed themselves in the mind of Catchuman as
the psychic windows of a decidedly shrewd if not altogether masterful
and broad-gauge man. For Belknap was inclined to carry himself with
an air which all were inclined to respect. He was a college graduate,
and in his youth because of his looks, his means, and his local social
position (his father had been a judge as well as a national senator
from here), he had seen so much of what might be called near-city life
that all those gaucheries as well as sex-inhibitions and sex-longings
which still so greatly troubled and motivated and even marked a man
like Mason had long since been covered with an easy manner and social
understanding which made him fairly capable of grasping any reasonable
moral or social complication which life was prepared to offer.

Indeed he was one who naturally would approach a case such as Clyde's
with less vehemence and fever than did Mason. For once, in his
twentieth year, he himself had been trapped between two girls, with
one of whom he was merely playing while being seriously in love with
the other. And having seduced the first and being confronted with an
engagement or flight, he had chosen flight. But not before laying the
matter before his father, by whom he was advised to take a vacation,
during which time the services of the family doctor were engaged with
the result that for a thousand dollars and expenses necessary to house
the pregnant girl in Utica, the father had finally extricated his son
and made possible his return, and eventual marriage to the other girl.

And therefore, while by no means sympathizing with the more cruel and
drastic phases of Clyde's attempt at escape--as so far charged (never
in all the years of his law practice had he been able to grasp the
psychology of a murderer) still because of the rumored existence and
love influence of a rich girl whose name had not as yet been divulged
he was inclined to suspect that Clyde had been emotionally betrayed or
bewitched. Was he not poor and vain and ambitious? He had heard so: had
even been thinking that he--the local political situation being what it
was might advantageously to himself--and perhaps most disruptingly to
the dreams of Mr. Mason be able to construct a defense--or at least a
series of legal contentions and delays which might make it not so easy
for Mr. Mason to walk away with the county judgeship as he imagined.
Might it not, by brisk, legal moves now--and even in the face of this
rising public sentiment, or because of it,--be possible to ask for a
change of venue--or time to develop new evidence in which case a trial
might not occur before Mr. Mason was out of office. He and his young
and somewhat new associate, Mr. Reuben Jephson, of quite recently the
state of Vermont, had been thinking of it.

And now Mr. Catchuman accompanied by Mr. Kellogg. And thereupon a
conference with Mr. Catchuman and Mr. Kellogg, with the latter arguing
quite politically the wisdom of his undertaking such a defense. And
his own interest in the case being what it was, he was not long in
deciding, after a conference with his younger associate, that he would.
In the long run it could not possibly injure him politically, however
the public might feel about it now.

And then Catchuman having handed over a retainer to Belknap as well as
a letter introducing him to Clyde, Belknap had Jephson call up Mason to
inform him that Belknap & Jephson, as counsel for Samuel Griffiths on
behalf of his nephew, would require of him a detailed written report
of all the charges as well as all the evidence thus far accumulated,
the minutes of the autopsy and the report of the coroner's inquest.
Also information as to whether any appeal for a special term of the
Supreme Court had as yet been acted upon, and if so what judge had been
named to sit, and when and where the Grand Jury would be gathered.
Incidentally, he said, Messrs. Belknap and Jephson, having heard that
Miss Alden's body had been sent to her home for burial, would request
at once a counsel's agreement whereby it might be exhumed in order
that other doctors now to be called by the defense might be permitted
to examine it--a proposition which Mason at once sought to oppose but
finally agreed to rather than submit to an order from a Supreme Court
judge.

These details having been settled, Belknap announced that he was going
over to the jail to see Clyde. It was late and he had had no dinner,
and might get none now, but he wanted to have a "heart to heart" with
this youth, whom Catchuman informed him he would find very difficult.
But Belknap, buoyed up as he was by his opposition to Mason, his
conviction that he was in a good mental state to understand Clyde, was
in a high degree of legal curiosity. The romance and drama of this
crime! What sort of a girl was this Sondra Finchley, of whom he had
already heard through secret channels? And could she by any chance be
brought to Clyde's defense? He had already understood that her name was
not to be mentioned--high politics demanding this. He was really most
eager to talk to this sly and ambitious and futile youth.

However, on reaching the jail, and after showing Sheriff Slack a
letter from Catchuman and asking as a special favor to himself that
he be taken upstairs to some place near Clyde's cell in order that,
unannounced, he might first observe Clyde, he was quietly led to the
second floor and, the outside door leading to the corridor which faced
Clyde's cell being opened for him, allowed to enter there alone. And
then walking to within a few feet of Clyde's cell he was able to view
him--at the moment lying face down on his iron cot, his arms above
his head, a tray of untouched food standing in the aperture, his body
sprawled and limp. For, since Catchuman's departure, and his second
failure to convince any one of his futile and meaningless lies, he was
more despondent than ever. In fact, so low was his condition that he
was actually crying, his shoulders heaving above his silent emotion. At
sight of this, and remembering his own youthful escapades, Belknap now
felt intensely sorry for him. No soulless murderer, as he saw it, would
cry.

Approaching Clyde's cell door, after a pause, he began with: "Come,
come, Clyde! This will never do. You mustn't give up like this. Your
case mayn't be as hopeless as you think. Wouldn't you like to sit up
and talk to a lawyer fellow who thinks he might be able to do something
for you? Belknap is my name--Alvin Belknap. I live right here in
Bridgeburg and I have been sent over by that other fellow who was here
a while ago--Catchuman, wasn't that his name? You didn't get along with
him so very well, did you? Well, I didn't either. He's not our kind, I
guess. But here's a letter from him authorizing me to represent you.
Want to see it?"

He poked it genially and authoritatively through the narrow bars
toward which Clyde, now curious and dubious, approached. For there
was something so whole-hearted and unusual and seemingly sympathetic
and understanding in this man's voice that Clyde took courage. And
without hesitancy, therefore, he took the letter and looked at it, then
returned it with a smile.

"There, I thought so," went on Belknap, most convincingly and pleased
with his effect, which he credited entirely to his own magnetism and
charm. "That's better. I know we're going to get along. I can feel it.
You are going to be able to talk to me as easily and truthfully as you
would to your mother. And without any fear that any word of anything
you ever tell me is going to reach another ear, unless you want it to,
see? For I'm going to be your lawyer, Clyde, if you'll let me, and
you're going to be my client, and we're going to sit down together
tomorrow, or whenever you say so, and you're going to tell me all you
think I ought to know, and I'm going to tell you what I think I ought
to know, and whether I'm going to be able to help you. And I'm going to
prove to you that in every way that you help me, you're only helping
yourself, see? And I'm going to do my damnedest to get you out of this.
Now, how's that, Clyde?"

He smiled most encouragingly and sympathetically--even affectionately.
And Clyde, feeling for the first time since his arrival here that he
had found some one in whom he could possibly confide without danger,
was already thinking it might be best if he should tell this man
all--everything--he could not have said why, quite, but he liked him.
In a quick, if dim way he felt that this man understood and might even
sympathize with him, if he knew all or nearly all. And after Belknap
had detailed how eager this enemy of his--Mason--was to convict him,
and how, if he could but devise a reasonable defense, he was sure he
could delay the case until this man was out of office, Clyde announced
that if he would give him the night to think it all out, to-morrow or
any time he chose to come back, he would tell him all.

And then, the next day Belknap sitting on a stool and munching
chocolate bars, listened while Clyde before him on his iron cot,
poured forth his story--all the details of his life since arriving at
Lycurgus--how and why he had come there, the incident of the slain
child in Kansas City, without, however, mention of the clipping which
he himself had preserved and then forgotten; his meeting with Roberta,
and his desire for her; her pregnancy and how he had sought to get
her out of it--on and on until, she having threatened to expose him,
he had at last, and in great distress and fright, found the item in
_The Times-Union_ and had sought to emulate that in action. But he had
never plotted it personally, as Belknap was to understand. Nor had
he intentionally killed her at the last. No, he had not. Mr. Belknap
must believe that, whatever else he thought. He had never deliberately
struck her. No, no, no! It had been an accident. There had been a
camera, and the tripod reported to have been found by Mason was
unquestionably his tripod. Also, he had hidden it under a log, after
accidentally striking Roberta with the camera and then seeing that
sink under the waters, where no doubt it still was, and with pictures
of himself and Roberta on the film it contained, if they were not
dissolved by the water. But he had not struck her intentionally. No--he
had not. She had approached and he had struck, but not intentionally.
The boat had upset. And then as nearly as he could, he described how
before that he had seemed to be in a trance almost, because having gone
so far he could go no farther.

But in the meantime, Belknap, himself finally wearied and confused by
this strange story, the impossibility as he now saw it of submitting
to, let alone convincing, any ordinary backwoods jury of this region,
of the innocence of these dark and bitter plans and deeds, finally in
great weariness and uncertainty and mental confusion, even, getting up
and placing his hands on Clyde's shoulders, saying: "Well, that'll be
enough of this for to-day, Clyde, I think. I see how you felt and how
it all came about--also I see how tired you are, and I'm mighty glad
you've been able to give me the straight of this, because I know how
hard it's been for you to do it. But I don't want you to talk any more
now. There are going to be other days, and I have a few things I want
to attend to before I take up some of the minor phases of this with you
to-morrow or next day. Just you sleep and rest for the present. You'll
need all you can get for the work both of us will have to do a little
later. But just now, you're not to worry, because there's no need of
it, do you see? I'll get you out of this--or we will--my partner and I.
I have a partner that I'm going to bring around here presently. You'll
like him, too. But there are one or two things that I want you to think
about and stick to--and one of these is that you're not to let anybody
frighten you into anything, because either myself or my partner will
be around here once a day anyhow, and anything you have to say or want
to know you can say or find out from us. Next you're not to talk to
anybody--Mason, the sheriff, these jailers, no one--unless I tell you
to. No one, do you hear! And above all things, don't cry any more. For
if you are as innocent as an angel, or as black as the devil himself,
the worst thing you can do is to cry before any one. The public and
these jail officers don't understand that--they invariably look upon it
as weakness or a confession of guilt. And I don't want them to feel any
such thing about you now, and especially when I know that you're really
not guilty. I know that now. I believe it. See! So keep a stiff upper
lip before Mason and everybody.

"In fact, from now on I want you to try and laugh a little--or at any
rate, smile and pass the time of day with these fellows around here.
There's an old saying in law, you know, that the consciousness of
innocence makes any man calm. Think and look innocent. Don't sit and
brood and look as though you had lost your last friend, because you
haven't. I'm here, and so is my partner, Mr. Jephson. I'll bring him
around here in a day or two, and you're to look and act toward him
exactly as you have toward me. Trust him, because in legal matters he's
even smarter than I am in some ways. And tomorrow I'm going to bring
you a couple of books and some magazines and papers, and I want you to
read them or look at the pictures. They'll help keep your mind off your
troubles."

Clyde achieved a rather feeble smile and nodded his head.

"From now on, too,--I don't know whether you're at all religious--but
whether you are or not, they hold services here in the jail on Sundays,
and I want you to attend 'em regularly--that is, if they ask you to.
For this is a religious community and I want you to make as good an
impression as you can. Never mind what people say or how they look--you
do as I tell you. And if this fellow Mason or any of those fellows
around here get to pestering you any more, send me a note.

"And now I'll be going along, so give me a cheerful smile as I go
out--and another one as I come in. And don't talk, see?"

Then shaking Clyde briskly by the shoulders and slapping him on the
back, he strode out, actually thinking to himself: "But do I really
believe that this fellow is as innocent as he says? Would it be
possible for a fellow to strike a girl like that and not know that he
was doing it intentionally? And then swimming away afterwards, because,
as he says, if he went near her he thought he might drown too. Bad.
Bad! What twelve men are going to believe that? And that bag, those
two hats, that missing suit! And yet he swears he didn't intentionally
strike her. But what about all that planning--the intent--which is
just as bad in the eyes of the law. Is he telling the truth or is he
lying even now--perhaps trying to deceive himself as well as me? And
that camera--we ought to get hold of that before Mason finds it and
introduces it. And that suit. I ought to find that and mention it,
maybe, so as to offset the look of its being hidden--say that we had
it all the time--send it to Lycurgus to be cleaned. But no, no--wait a
minute--I must think about that."

And so on, point by point, while deciding wearily that perhaps it would
be better not to attempt to use Clyde's story at all, but rather to
concoct some other story--this one changed or modified in some way
which would make it appear less cruel or legally murderous.




                              CHAPTER XV


Mr. Reuben Jephson was decidedly different from Belknap, Catchuman,
Mason, Smillie--in fact any one, thus far, who had seen Clyde or
become legally interested in this case. He was young, tall, thin,
rugged, brown, cool but not cold spiritually, and with a will and a
determination of the tensile strength of steel. And with a mental
and legal equipment which for shrewdness and self-interest was not
unlike that of a lynx or a ferret. Those shrewd, steel, very light
blue eyes in his brown face. The force and curiosity of the long nose.
The strength of the hands and the body. He had lost no time, as soon
as he discovered there was a possibility of their (Belknap & Jephson)
taking over the defense of Clyde, in going over the minutes of the
coroner's inquest as well as the doctors' reports and the letters of
Roberta and Sondra. And now being faced by Belknap who was explaining
that Clyde did now actually admit to having plotted to kill Roberta,
although not to having actually done so, since at the fatal moment,
some cataleptic state of mind or remorse had intervened and caused him
to unintentionally strike her--he merely stared without the shadow of a
smile or comment of any kind.

"But he wasn't in such a state when he went out there with her, though?"

"No."

"Nor when he swam away afterwards?"

"No."

"Nor when he went through those woods, or changed to another suit and
hat, or hid that tripod?"

"No."

"Of course you know, constructively, in the eyes of the law, if we use
his own story, he's just as guilty as though he had struck her, and the
judge would have to so instruct."

"Yes, I know. I've thought of all that."

"Well, then----"

"Well, I'll tell you, Jephson, it's a tough case and no mistake. It
looks to me now as though Mason has all the cards. If we can get this
chap off, we can get anybody off. But as I see it, I'm not so sure
that we want to mention that cataleptic business yet--at least not
unless we want to enter a plea of insanity or emotional insanity, or
something like that--about like that Harry Thaw case, for instance." He
paused and scratched his slightly graying temple dubiously.

"You think he's guilty, of course?" interpolated Jephson, drily.

"Well, now, as astonishing as it may seem to you, no. At least, I'm
not positive that I do. To tell you the truth, this is one of the most
puzzling cases I have ever run up against. This fellow is by no means
as hard as you think, or as cold--quite a simple, affectionate chap,
in a way, as you'll see for yourself--his manner, I mean. He's only
twenty-one or two. And for all his connections with these Griffiths,
he's very poor--just a clerk, really. And he tells me that his parents
are poor, too. They run a mission of some kind out west--Denver, I
believe--and before that in Kansas City. He hasn't been home in four
years. In fact, he got into some crazy boy scrape out there in Kansas
City when he was working for one of the hotels as a bell-boy, and had
to run away. That's something we've got to look out for in connection
with Mason--whether he knows about that or not. It seems he and a bunch
of other bell-hops took some rich fellow's car without his knowing it,
and then because they were afraid of being late, they ran over and
killed a little girl. We've got to find out about that and prepare for
it, for if Mason does know about it, he'll spring it at the trial, and
just when he thinks we're least expecting it."

"Well, he won't pull that one," replied Jephson, his hard, electric,
blue eyes gleaming, "not if I have to go to Kansas City to find out."

And Belknap went on to tell Jephson all that he knew about Clyde's life
up to the present time--how he had worked at dish-washing, waiting
on table, soda-clerking, driving a wagon, anything and everything,
before he had arrived in Lycurgus--how he had always been fascinated by
girls--how he had first met Roberta and later Sondra. Finally how he
found himself trapped by one and desperately in love with the other,
whom he could not have unless he got rid of the first one.

"And notwithstanding all that, you feel a doubt as to whether he did
kill her?" asked Jephson, at the conclusion of all this.

"Yes, as I say, I'm not at all sure that he did. But I do know that he
is still hipped over this second girl. His manner changed whenever he
or I happened to mention her. Once, for instance, I asked him about
his relations with her--and in spite of the fact that he's accused of
seducing and killing this other girl, he looked at me as though I had
said something I shouldn't have--insulted him or her." And here Belknap
smiled a wry smile, while Jephson, his long, bony legs propped against
the walnut desk before him, merely stared at him.

"You don't say," he finally observed.

"And not only that," went on Belknap, "but he said, 'Why, no, of course
not. She wouldn't allow anything like that, and besides,' and then he
stopped. 'And besides what, Clyde,' I asked. 'Well, you don't want to
forget who she is.' 'Oh, I see,' I said. And then, will you believe
it, he wanted to know if there wasn't some way by which her name and
those letters she wrote him couldn't be kept out of the papers and this
case--her family prevented from knowing so that she and they wouldn't
be hurt too much."

"Not really? But what about the other girl?"

"That's just the point I'm trying to make. He could plot to kill one
girl and maybe even did kill her, for all I know, after seducing her,
but because he was being so sculled around by his grand ideas of this
other girl, he didn't quite know what he was doing, really. Don't you
see? You know how it is with some of these young fellows of his age,
and especially when they've never had anything much to do with girls or
money, and want to be something grand."

"You think that made him a little crazy, maybe?" put in Jephson.

"Well, it's possible--confused, hypnotized, loony--you know--a brain
storm as they say down in New York. But he certainly is still cracked
over that other girl. In fact, I think most of his crying in jail is
over her. He was crying, you know, when I went in to see him, sobbing
as if his heart would break."

Meditatively Belknap scratched his right ear. "But just the same, there
certainly is something to this other idea--that his mind was turned
by all this--that Alden girl forcing him on the one hand to marry her
while the other girl was offering to marry him. I know. I was once in
such a scrape myself." And here he paused to relate that to Jephson.
"By the way," he went on, "he says we can find that item about that
other couple drowning in _The Times-Union_ of about June 18th or 19th."

"All right," replied Jephson, "I'll get it."

"What I want you to do to-morrow," continued Belknap, "is to go over
there with me and see what impression you get of him. I'll be there
to see if he tells it all to you in the same way. I want your own
individual viewpoint of him."

"You most certainly will get it," snapped Jephson.

Belknap and Jephson proceeded the next day to visit Clyde in jail.
And Jephson, after interviewing him and meditating once more on his
strange story, was even then not quite able to make up his mind whether
Clyde was as innocent of intending to strike Roberta as he said, or
not. For if he were, how could he have swum away afterward, leaving
her to drown? Decidedly it would be more difficult for a jury than for
himself, even, to be convinced.

At the same time, there was that contention of Belknap's as to the
possibility of Clyde's having been mentally upset or unbalanced at the
time that he accepted _The Times-Union_ plot and proceeded to act on
it. That might be true, of course, yet personally, to Jephson at least,
Clyde appeared to be wise and sane enough now. As Jephson saw him, he
was harder and more cunning than Belknap was willing to believe--a
cunning, modified of course, by certain soft and winning social graces
for which one could hardly help liking him. However, Clyde was by no
means as willing to confide in Jephson as he had been in Belknap--an
attitude which did little to attract Jephson to him at first. At the
same time, there was about Jephson a hard, integrated earnestness which
soon convinced Clyde of his technical, if not his emotional interest.
And after a while he began looking toward this younger man, even more
than toward Belknap as the one who might do most for him.

"Of course, you know that those letters which Miss Alden wrote you are
very strong?" began Jephson, after hearing Clyde restate his story.

"Yes, sir."

"They're very sad to any one who doesn't know all of the facts, and
on that account they are likely to prejudice any jury against you,
especially when they're put alongside Miss Finchley's letters."

"Yes, I suppose they might," replied Clyde, "but then, she wasn't
always like that, either. It was only after she got in trouble and I
wanted her to let me go that she wrote like that."

"I know. I know. And that's a point we want to think about and maybe
bring out, if we can. If only there were some way to keep those letters
out," he now turned to Belknap to say. Then, to Clyde, "but what I want
to ask you now is this--you were close to her for something like a
year, weren't you?"

"Yes."

"In all of that time that you were with her, or before, was she ever
friendly, or maybe intimate, with any other young man anywhere--that
is, that you know of?"

As Clyde could see, Jephson was not afraid, or perhaps not sufficiently
sensitive, to refrain from presenting any thought or trick that seemed
to him likely to provide a loophole for escape. But, far from being
cheered by this suggestion, he was really shocked. What a shameful
thing in connection with Roberta and her character it would be to
attempt to introduce any such lie as this. He could not and would not
hint at any such falsehood, and so he replied:

"No, sir. I never heard of her going with any one else. In fact, I know
she didn't."

"Very good! That settles that," snapped Jephson. "I judged from her
letters that what you say is true. At the same time, we must know all
the facts. It might make a very great difference if there were some one
else."

And at this point Clyde could not quite make sure whether he was
attempting to impress upon him the value of this as an idea or not, but
just the same he decided it was not right even to consider it. And yet
he was thinking: If only this man could think of a real defense for me!
He looks so shrewd.

"Well, then," went on Jephson, in the same hard, searching tone,
devoid, as Clyde saw it, of sentiment or pity of any kind, "here's
something else I want to ask you. In all the time that you knew her,
either before you were intimate with her or afterwards, did she ever
write you a mean or sarcastic or demanding or threatening letter of any
kind?"

"No, sir, I can't say that she ever did," replied Clyde, "in fact, I
know she didn't. No, sir. Except for those few last ones, maybe--the
very last one."

"And you never wrote her any, I suppose?"

"No, sir, I never wrote her any letters."

"Why?"

"Well, she was right there in the factory with me, you see. Besides at
the last there, after she went home, I was afraid to."

"I see."

At the same time, as Clyde now proceeded to point out, and that quite
honestly, Roberta could be far from sweet-tempered at times--could in
fact be quite determined and even stubborn. And she had paid no least
attention to his plea that her forcing him to marry her now would
ruin him socially as well as in every other way, and that even in the
face of his willingness to work along and pay for her support--an
attitude which, as he now described it, was what had caused all the
trouble--whereas Miss Finchley (and here he introduced an element of
reverence and enthusiasm which Jephson was quick to note) was willing
to do everything for him.

"So you really loved that Miss Finchley very much then, did you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you couldn't care for Roberta any more after you met her?"

"No, no. I just couldn't."

"I see," observed Jephson, solemnly nodding his head, and at the same
time meditating on how futile and dangerous, even, it might be to let
the jury know that. And then thinking that possibly it were best to
follow the previous suggestion of Belknap's, based on the customary
legal proceeding of the time, and claim insanity, or a brain storm,
brought about by the terrifying position in which he imagined himself
to be. But apart from that he now proceeded:

"You say something came over you when you were in the boat out there
with her on that last day--that you really didn't know what you were
doing at the time that you struck her?"

"Yes, sir, that's the truth." And here Clyde went on to explain once
more just what his state was at that time.

"All right, all right, I believe you," replied Jephson, seemingly
believing what Clyde said but not actually able to conceive it at that.
"But you know, of course, that no jury, in the face of all these other
circumstances, is going to believe that," he now announced. "There are
too many things that'll have to be explained and that we can't very
well explain as things now stand. I don't know about that idea." He now
turned and was addressing Belknap. "Those two hats, that bag--unless
we're going to plead insanity or something like that. I'm not so sure
about all this. Was there ever any insanity in your family that you
know of?" he now added, turning to Clyde once more.

"No, sir, not that I know of."

"No uncle or cousin or grandfather who had fits or strange ideas or
anything like that?"

"Not that I ever heard of, no, sir."

"And your rich relatives down there in Lycurgus--I suppose they'd not
like it very much if I were to step up and try to prove anything like
that?"

"I'm afraid they wouldn't, no, sir," replied Clyde, thinking of Gilbert.

"Well, let me see," went on Jephson after a time. "That makes it
rather hard. I don't see, though, that anything else would be as safe."
And here he turned once more to Belknap and began to inquire as to what
he thought of suicide as a theory, since Roberta's letters themselves
showed a melancholy trend which might easily have led to thoughts of
suicide. And could they not say that once out on the lake with Clyde
and pleading with him to marry her, and he refusing to do so, she had
jumped overboard. And he was too astounded and mentally upset to try to
save her.

"But what about his own story that the wind had blown his hat off, and
in trying to save that he upset the boat?" interjected Belknap, and
exactly as though Clyde were not present.

"Well, that's true enough, too, but couldn't we say that perhaps, since
he was morally responsible for her condition, which in turn had caused
her to take her life, he did not want to confess to the truth of her
suicide?"

At this Clyde winced, but neither now troubled to notice him. They
talked as though he was not present or could have no opinion in the
matter, a procedure which astonished but by no means moved him to
object, since he was feeling so helpless.

"But the false registrations! The two hats--the suit--his bag!"
insisted Belknap staccatically, a tone which showed Clyde how serious
Belknap considered his predicament to be.

"Well, whatever theory we advance, those things will have to be
accounted for in some way," replied Jephson, dubiously. "We can't admit
the true story of his plotting without an insanity plea, not as I see
it--at any rate. And unless we use that, we've got that evidence to
deal with whatever we do." He threw up his hands wearily and as if to
say: I swear I don't know what to do about this.

"But," persisted Belknap, "in the face of all that, and his refusal to
marry her, after his promises referred to in her letters--why, it would
only react against him, so that public opinion would be more prejudiced
against him than ever. No, that won't do," he concluded. "We'll have to
think of something which will create some sort of sympathy for him."

And then once more turning to Clyde as though there had been no such
discussion. And looking at him as much as to say: "You are a problem
indeed." And then Jephson, observing: "And, oh, yes, that suit you
dropped in that lake up there near the Cranstons--describe the spot to
me as near as you can where you threw it--how far from the house was
it?" He waited until Clyde haltingly attempted to recapture the various
details of the hour and the scene as he could recall it.

"If I could go up there, I could find it quick enough."

"Yes, I know, but they won't let you go up there without Mason being
along," he returned. "And maybe not even then. You're in prison now,
and you can't be taken out without the state's consent, you see. But we
must get that suit." Then turning to Belknap and lowering his voice, he
added: "We want to get it and have it cleaned and submit it as having
been sent away to be cleaned by him--not hidden, you see."

"Yes, that's so," commented Belknap idly while Clyde stood listening
curiously and a little amazed by this frank program of trickery and
deception on his behalf.

"And now in regard to that camera that fell in the lake--we have to try
and find that, too. I think maybe Mason may know about it or suspect
that it's there. At any rate it's very important that we should find it
before he does. You think that about where that pole was that day you
were up there is where the boat was when it overturned?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, we must see if we can get that," he continued, turning to
Belknap. "We don't want that turning up in the trial, if we can help
it. For without that, they'll have to be swearing that he struck her
with that tripod or something that he didn't, and that's where we may
trip 'em up."

"Yes, that's true, too," replied Belknap.

"And now in regard to the bag that Mason has. That's another thing I
haven't seen yet, but I will see it to-morrow. Did you put that suit,
as wet as it was, in the bag when you came out of the water?"

"No, sir, I wrung it out first. And then I dried it as much as I could.
And then I wrapped it up in the paper that we had the lunch in and then
put some dry pine needles underneath it in the bag and on top of it."

"So there weren't any wet marks in the bag after you took it out, as
far as you know?"

"No, sir, I don't think so."

"But you're not sure?"

"Not exactly sure now that you ask me--no, sir."

"Well, I'll see for myself to-morrow. And now as to those marks on her
face, you have never admitted to any one around here or anywhere that
you struck her in any way?"

"No, sir."

"And the mark on the top of her head was made by the boat, just as you
said?"

"Yes, sir."

"But the others you think you might have made with the camera?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose they were."

"Well, then, this is the way it looks to me," said Jephson, again
turning to Belknap. "I think we can safely say when the time comes that
those marks were never made by him at all, see?--but by the hooks and
the poles with which they were scraping around up there when they were
trying to find her. We can try it, anyhow. And if the hooks and poles
didn't do it," he added, a little grimly and dryly, "certainly hauling
her body from that lake to that railroad station and from there to here
on the train might have."

"Yes, I think Mason would have a hard time proving that they weren't
made that way," replied Belknap.

"And as for that tripod, well, we'd better exhume the body and make our
own measurements, and measure the thickness of the edge of that boat,
so that it may not be so easy for Mason to make any use of the tripod
now that he has it, after all."

Mr. Jephson's eyes were very small and very clear and very blue, as he
said this. His head, as well as his body, had a thin, ferrety look. And
it seemed to Clyde, who had been observing and listening to all this
with awe, that this younger man might be the one to aid him. He was so
shrewd and practical, so very direct and chill and indifferent, and yet
confidence-inspiring, quite like an uncontrollable machine of a kind
which generates power.

And when at last these two were ready to go, he was sorry. For with
them near him, planning and plotting in regard to himself, he felt so
much safer, stronger, more hopeful, more certain of being free, maybe,
at some future date.




                              CHAPTER XVI


The result of all this, however, was that it was finally decided that
perhaps the easiest and safest defense that could be made, assuming
that the Griffiths family of Lycurgus would submit to it, would be
that of insanity or "brain storm"--a temporary aberration due to love
and an illusion of grandeur aroused in Clyde by Sondra Finchley and
the threatened disruption by Roberta of all his dreams and plans. But
after consultation with Catchuman and Darrah Brookhart at Lycurgus,
and these in turn conferring with Samuel and Gilbert Griffiths, it was
determined that this would not do. For to establish insanity or "brain
storm" would require previous evidence or testimony to the effect that
Clyde was of none too sound mind, erratic his whole life long, and with
certain specific instances tending to demonstrate how really peculiar
he was--relatives (among them the Griffiths of Lycurgus themselves,
perhaps), coming on to swear to it--a line of evidence, which,
requiring as it would, outright lying and perjury on the part of many
as well as reflecting on the Griffiths' blood and brain, was sufficient
to alienate both Samuel and Gilbert to the extent that they would have
none of it. And so Brookhart was compelled to assure Belknap that this
line of defense would have to be abandoned.

Such being the case, both Belknap and Jephson were once more compelled
to sit down and consider. For any other defense which either could
think of now seemed positively hopeless.

"I want to tell you one thing!" observed the sturdy Jephson, after
thumbing through the letters of both Roberta and Sondra again. "These
letters of this Alden girl are the toughest things we're going to have
to face. They're likely to make any jury cry if they're read right, and
then to introduce those letters from that other girl on top of these
would be fatal. It will be better, I think, if we do not mention hers
at all, unless he does. It will only make it look as though he had
killed that Alden girl to get rid of her. Mason couldn't want anything
better, as I see it." And with this Belknap agreed most heartily.

At the same time, some plan must be devised immediately. And so, out
of these various conferences, it was finally deduced by Jephson, who
saw a great opportunity for himself in this matter, that the safest
possible defense that could be made, and one to which Clyde's own
suspicions and most peculiar actions would most exactly fit, would be
that he had never contemplated murder. On the contrary, being a moral
if not a physical coward, as his own story seemed to suggest, and in
terror of being exposed and driven out of Lycurgus and of the heart of
Sondra, and never as yet having told Roberta of Sondra and thinking
that knowledge of this great love for her (Sondra) might influence
Roberta to wish to be rid of him, he had hastily and without any worse
plan in mind, decided to persuade Roberta to accompany him to any
near-by resort but not especially Grass Lake or Big Bittern, in order
to tell her all this and so win his freedom--yet not without offering
to pay her expenses as nearly as he could during her very trying period.

"All well and good," commented Belknap. "But that involves his refusing
to marry her, doesn't it? And what jury is going to sympathize with him
for that or believe that he didn't want to kill her?"

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," replied Jephson, a little testily. "So
far it does. Sure. But you haven't heard me to the end yet. I said I
had a plan."

"All right, then what is it?" replied Belknap most interested.

"Well, I'll tell you--my plan's this--to leave all the facts just as
they are, and just as he tells them, and just as Mason has discussed
them so far, except, of course, his striking her--and then explain
them--the letters, the wounds, the bag, the two hats, everything--not
deny them in any way."

And here he paused and ran his long, thin, freckled hands eagerly
through his light hair and looked across the grass of the public square
to the jail where Clyde was, then toward Belknap again.

"All very good, but how?" queried Belknap.

"There's no other way, I tell you," went on Jephson quite to himself,
and ignoring his senior, "and I think this will do it." He turned
to look out the window again, and began as though talking to some
one outside: "He goes up there, you see, because he's frightened and
because he has to do something or be exposed. And he signs those
registers just as he did because he's afraid to have it known by
anybody down there in Lycurgus that he is up there. And he has this
plan about confessing to her about this other girl. _BUT_," and now
he paused and looked fixedly at Belknap, "and this is the keystone of
the whole thing--if this won't hold water, then down we go! Listen!
He goes up there with her, frightened, and not to marry her or to kill
her but to argue with her to go away. But once up there and he sees
how sick she is, and tired, and sad--well, you know how much she still
loves him, and he spends two nights with her, see?"

"Yes, I see," interrupted Belknap, curiously, but not quite so
dubiously now. "And that might explain those nights."

"MIGHT? Would!" replied Jephson, slyly and calmly, his harebell eyes
showing only cold, eager, practical logic, no trace of emotion or even
sympathy of any kind, really. "Well, while he's up there with her under
those conditions--so close to her again, you see" (and his facial
expression never altered so much as by a line) "he experiences a change
of heart. You get me? He's sorry for her. He's ashamed of himself--his
sin against her. That ought to appeal to these fellows around here,
these religious and moral people, oughtn't it?"

"It might," quietly interpolated Belknap, who by now was very much
interested and a little hopeful.

"He sees that he's done her a wrong," continued Jephson, intent, like
a spider spinning a web, on his own plan, "and in spite of all his
affection for this other girl, he's now ready to do the right thing by
this Alden girl, do you see, because he's sorry and ashamed of himself.
That takes the black look off his plotting to kill her while spending
those two nights in Utica and Grass Lake with her."

"He still loves the other girl, though?" interjected Belknap.

"Well, sure. He likes her at any rate, has been fascinated by that life
down there and sort of taken out of himself, made over into a different
person, but now he's ready to marry Roberta, in case, after telling her
all about this other girl and his love for her, she still wants him to."

"I see. But how about the boat now and that bag and his going up to
this Finchley girl's place afterwards?"

"Just a minute! Just a minute! I'll tell you about that," continued
Jephson, his blue eyes boring into space like a powerful electric ray.
"Of course, he goes out in the boat with her, and of course he takes
that bag, and of course he signs those registers falsely, and walks
away through those woods to that other girl, after Roberta is drowned.
But why? Why? Do you want to know why? I'll tell you! He felt sorry
for her, see, and he wanted to marry her, or at least he wanted to do
the right thing by her at the very last there. Not before, not before,
remember, but _after_ he had spent a night with her in Utica and
another one in Grass Lake. But once she was drowned--and accidentally,
of course, as he says, there was his love for that other girl. He
hadn't ceased loving her even though he was willing to sacrifice her in
order to do the right thing by Roberta. See?"

"I see."

"And how are they going to prove that he didn't experience a change of
heart if he says he did and sticks to it?"

"I see, but he'll have to tell a mighty convincing story," added
Belknap, a little heavily. "And how about those two hats? They're going
to have to be explained."

"Well, I'm coming to those now. The one he had was a little soiled. And
so he decided to buy another. As for that story he told Mason about
wearing a cap, well, he was frightened and lied because he thought he
would have to get out of it. Now, of course, before he goes to that
other girl afterwards--while Roberta is still alive, I mean, there's
his relationship with the other girl, what he intends to do about her.
He's talking to Roberta, now you see," he continued, "and that has
to be disposed of in some way. But, as I see it, that's easy, for of
course after he experiences a change of heart and wants to do the right
thing by Roberta, all he has to do is to write that other girl or go to
her and tell her--about the wrong he has done Roberta."

"Yes."

"For, as I see it now, she can't be kept out of the case entirely,
after all. We'll have to ring her in, I'm afraid."

"All right; then we have to," said Belknap.

"Because you see, if Roberta still feels that he ought to marry
her--he'll go first and tell that Finchley girl that he can't marry
her--that he's going away--that is, if Roberta doesn't object to his
leaving her that long, don't you see?"

"Yes."

"If she does, he'll marry her, either at Three Mile Bay or some other
place."

"Yes."

"But you don't want to forget that while she's still alive he's puzzled
and distressed. And it's only after that second night, at Grass
Lake, that he begins to see how wrong all his actions have been, you
understand. Something happens. Maybe she cries or talks about wanting
to die, like she does in those letters."

"Yes."

"And so he wants a quiet place where they can sit down in peace and
talk, where no one else will see or hear them."

"Yes, yes--go on."

"Well, he thinks of Big Bittern. He's been up there once before or
they're near there, then, and just below there, twelve miles, is Three
Mile Bay, where, if they decide to marry, they can."

"I see."

"If not, if she doesn't want to marry him after his full confession, he
can row her back to the inn, can't he, and he or she can stay there or
go on."

"Yes, yes."

"In the meantime, not to have any delay or be compelled to hang about
that inn--it's rather expensive, you know, and he hasn't any too much
money--he takes that lunch in his bag. Also his camera, because he
wants to take some pictures. For if Mason should turn up with that
camera, it's got to be explained, and it will be better explained by us
than it will be by him, won't it?"

"I see, I see," exclaimed Belknap, intensely interested by now and
actually smiling and beginning to rub his hands.

"So they go out on the lake."

"Yes."

"And they row around."

"Yes."

"And finally after lunch on shore, some pictures taken----"

"Yes."

"He decides to tell her just how things stand with him. He's ready,
willing----"

"I get you."

"Only just before doing that, he wants to take one or two more pictures
of her there in the boat, just off shore."

"Yes."

"And then he'll tell her, see?"

"Yes."

"And so they go out in the boat again for a little row, just as he did,
see?"

"Yes."

"But because they intend to go ashore again for some flowers, he's left
the bag there, see? That explains the bag."

"Yes."

"But before taking any more pictures there, in the boat on the water,
he begins to tell her about his love for this other girl--that if she
wants him to, now he'll marry her and then write this Sondra a letter.
Or, if she feels she doesn't want to marry him with him loving this
other girl...."

"Yes, go on!" interrupted Belknap, eagerly.

"Well," continued Jephson, "he'll do his best to take care of her and
support her out of the money he'll have after he marries the rich girl."

"Yes."

"Well, she wants him to marry her and drop this Miss Finchley!"

"I see."

"And he agrees?"

"Sure."

"Also she's so grateful that in her excitement, or gratitude, she jumps
up to come toward him, you see?"

"Yes."

"And the boat rocks a little, and he jumps up to help her because he's
afraid she's going to fall, see?"

"Yes, I see."

"Well, now if we wanted to we could have him have that camera of his in
his hand or not, just as you think fit."

"Yes, I see what you're driving at."

"Well, whether he keeps it in his hand or doesn't, there's some misstep
on his part or hers, just as he says, or just the motion of the two
bodies, causes the boat to go over, and he strikes her, or not, just as
you think fit, but accidentally, of course."

"Yes, I see, and I'll be damned!" exclaimed Belknap. "Fine, Reuben!
Excellent! Wonderful, really!"

"And the boat strikes her too, as well as him, a little, see?" went on
Jephson, paying no attention to this outburst, so interested was he in
his own plot, "and makes him a little dizzy, too."

"I see."

"And he hears her cries and sees her, but he's a little stunned
himself, see? And by the time he's ready to do something----"

"She's gone," concluded Belknap, quietly. "Drowned. I get you."

"And then, because of all those other suspicious circumstances and
false registrations--and because now she's gone and he can't do
anything more for her, anyhow--her relatives might not want to know her
condition, you know----"

"I see."

"He slips away, frightened, a moral coward, just as we'll have to
contend from the first, anxious to stand well with his uncle and not
lose his place in this world. Doesn't that explain it?"

"About as well as anything could explain it, Reuben, I think. In fact,
I think it's a plausible explanation and I congratulate you. I don't
see how any one could hope to find a better. If that doesn't get him
off, or bring about a disagreement, at least we might get him off with,
well, say, twenty years, don't you think?" And very much cheered, he
got up, and after eyeing his long, thin associate admiringly, added:
"Fine!" while Jephson, his blue eyes for all the world like windless,
still pools, looked steadily back.

"But of course you know what that means?" Jephson now added, calmly and
softly.

"That we have to put him on the witness stand? Surely, surely. I see
that well enough. But it's his only chance."

"And he won't strike people as a very steady or convincing fellow, I'm
afraid--too nervous and emotional."

"Yes, I know all that," replied Belknap, quickly. "He's easily rattled.
And Mason will go after him like a wild bull. But we'll have to coach
him as to all this--drill him. Make him understand that it's his only
chance--that his very life depends on it. Drill him for months."

"If he fails, then he's gone. If only we could do something to give
him courage--teach him to act it out." Jephson's eyes seemed to be
gazing directly before him at the very courtroom scene in which Clyde
on the stand would have Mason before him. And then picking up Roberta's
letters (copies of them furnished by Mason) and looking at them, he
concluded: "If it only weren't for these--here." He weighed them up and
down in his hand. "Christ!" he finally concluded, darkly. "What a case!
But we're not licked yet, not by a darn sight! Why, we haven't begun
to fight yet. And we'll get a lot of publicity, anyhow. By the way,"
he added, "I'm having a fellow I know down near Big Bittern dredge for
that camera to-night. Wish me luck."

"Do I?" was all Belknap replied.




                             CHAPTER XVII


The struggle and excitement of a great murder trial! Belknap and
Jephson, after consulting with Brookhart and Catchuman, learning that
they considered Jephson's plan "perhaps the only way," but with as
little reference to the Griffiths as possible.

And then at once, Messrs. Belknap and Jephson issuing preliminary
statements framed in such a manner as to show their faith in Clyde,
presenting him as being, in reality, a much maligned and entirely
misunderstood youth, whose intentions and actions toward Miss Alden
were as different from those set forth by Mason as white from black.
And intimating that the undue haste of the district attorney in seeking
a special term of the Supreme Court might possibly have a political
rather than a purely legal meaning. Else why the hurry, especially in
the face of an approaching county election? Could there be any plan
to use the results of such a trial as this to further any particular
person's, or group of persons', political ambitions? Messrs. Belknap
and Jephson begged to hope not.

But regardless of such plans or the prejudices or the political
aspirations of any particular person or group, the defense in this
instance did not propose to permit a boy as innocent as Clyde, trapped
by circumstances--as counsel for the defense would be prepared to
show--to be railroaded to the electric chair merely to achieve a
victory for the Republican party in November Furthermore, to combat
these strange and yet false circumstances, the defense would require a
considerable period of time to prepare its case. Therefore, it would
be necessary for them to file a formal protest at Albany against the
district attorney's request to the governor for a special term of the
Supreme Court. There was no need for the same, since the regular term
for the trial of such cases would fall in January, and the preparation
of their case would require that much time.

But while this strong, if rather belated, reply was listened to with
proper gravity by the representatives of the various newspapers, Mason
vigorously pooh-poohed this "windy" assertion of political plotting,
as well as the talk of Clyde's innocence. "What reason have I, a
representative of all the people of this county, to railroad this man
anywhere or make one single charge against him unless the charges
make themselves? Doesn't the evidence itself show that he did kill
this girl? And has he ever said or done one thing to clear up any of
the suspicious circumstances? No! Silence or lies. And until these
circumstances are disproved by these very able gentlemen, I am going
right ahead. I have all the evidence necessary to convict this young
criminal now. And to delay it until January, when I shall be out of
office, as they know, and when a new man will have to go over all this
evidence with which I have familiarized myself, is to entail great
expense to the county. For all the witnesses I have gotten together
are right here now, easy to bring into Bridgeburg without any great
expense to the county. But where will they be next January or February,
especially after the defense has done its best to scatter them? No,
sir! I will not agree to it. But, if within ten days or two weeks from
now even, they can bring me something that will so much as make it
look as though even some of the charges I have made are not true, I'll
be perfectly willing to go before the presiding judge with them, and
if they can show him any evidence they have or hope to have, or that
there are any distant known witnesses to be secured who can help prove
this fellow's innocence, why, then, well and good. I'll be willing to
ask the judge to grant them as much time as he may see fit, even if it
throws the trial over until I am out of office. But if the trial comes
up while I'm here, as I honestly hope it will, I'll prosecute it to
the best of my ability, not because I'm looking for an office of any
kind but because I am now the district attorney and it is my duty to do
so. And as for my being in politics, well, Mr. Belknap is in politics,
isn't he? He ran against me the last time, and I hear he desires to run
again."

Accordingly he proceeded to Albany further to impress upon the Governor
the very great need of an immediate special term of the Court so
that Clyde might be indicted. And the Governor, hearing the personal
arguments of both Mason and Belknap, decided in favor of Mason, on the
ground that the granting of a special term did not militate against
any necessary delay of the trial of the case, since nothing which
the defense as yet had to offer seemed to indicate that the calling
of a special term was likely in any way to prevent it from obtaining
as much time wherein to try the case as needed. Besides, it would
be the business of the Supreme Court justice appointed to consider
such arguments--not himself. And accordingly, a special term of the
Supreme Court was ordered, with one Justice Frederick Oberwaltzer of
the eleventh judicial district designated to preside. And when Mason
appeared before him with the request that he fix the date of the
Special Grand Jury by which Clyde might be indicted, this was set for
August fifth.

And then that body sitting, it was no least trouble for Mason to have
Clyde indicted.

And thereafter the best that Belknap and Jephson could do was to appear
before Oberwaltzer, a Democrat, who owed his appointment to a previous
governor, to argue for a change of venue, on the ground that by no
possible stretch of the imagination could any twelve men residing
in Cataraqui County be found who, owing to the public and private
statements of Mason, were not already vitally opposed to Clyde and so
convinced of his guilt that before ever such a jury could be addressed
by a defense, he would be convicted.

"But where are you going then?" injuired Justice Oberwaltzer, who was
impartial enough. "This same material has been published everywhere."

"But, your Honor, this crime which the district attorney here has been
so busy in magnifying----" (a long and heated objection on the part of
Mason).

"But we contend just the same," continued Belknap, "that the public has
been unduly stirred and deluded. You can't get twelve men now who will
try this man fairly."

"What nonsense!" exclaimed Mason, angrily. "Mere twaddle! Why, the
newspapers themselves have gathered and published more evidence than I
have. It's the publicly discovered facts in this case that have aroused
prejudice, if any has been aroused. But no more than would be aroused
anywhere, I maintain. Besides, if this case is to be transferred to a
distant county when the majority of the witnesses are right here, this
county is going to be saddled with an enormous expense, which it cannot
afford and which the facts do not warrant."

Justice Oberwaltzer, who was of a sober and moral turn, a slow and
meticulous man inclined to favor conservative procedure in all things,
was inclined to agree. And after five days, in which he did no more
than muse idly upon the matter, he decided to deny the motion. If he
were wrong, there was the Appellate Division to which the defense could
resort. As for stays, having fixed the date of the trial for October
fifteenth (ample time, as he judged, for the defense to prepare its
case), he adjourned for the remainder of the summer to his cottage on
Blue Mountain Lake, where both the prosecution and the defense, should
any knotty or locally insoluble legal complication arise, would be able
to find him and have his personal attention.

But with the entry of the Messrs. Belknap and Jephson into the case,
Mason found it advisable to redouble his efforts to make positive,
in so far as it was possible, the conviction of Clyde. He feared the
young Jephson as much as he did Belknap. And for that reason, taking
with him Burton Burleigh and Earl Newcomb, he now revisited Lycurgus,
where among other things he was able to discover (1) where Clyde had
purchased the camera; (2) that three days before his departure for Big
Bittern he had said to Mrs. Peyton that he was thinking of taking his
camera with him and that he must get some films for it; (3) that there
was a haberdasher by the name of Orrin Short who had known Clyde well
and that but four months before Clyde had applied to him for advice
in connection with a factory hand's pregnant wife--also (and this in
great confidence to Burton Burleigh, who had unearthed him) that he
had recommended to Clyde a certain Dr. Glenn, near Gloversville; (4)
Dr. Glenn himself being sought and pictures of Clyde and Roberta being
submitted, he was able to identify Roberta, although not Clyde, and to
describe the state of mind in which she had approached him, as well as
the story she had told--a story which in no way incriminated Clyde or
herself, and which, therefore, Mason decided might best be ignored, for
the present, anyhow.

And (5), via these same enthusiastic efforts, there rose to the surface
the particular hat salesman in Utica who had sold Clyde the hat. For
Burton Burleigh being interviewed while in Utica, and his picture
published along with one of Clyde, this salesman chanced to see it
and recalling him at once made haste to communicate with Mason, with
the result that his testimony, properly typewritten and sworn to, was
carried away by Mason.

And, in addition, the country girl who had been on the steamer "Cygnus"
and who had noticed Clyde, wrote Mason that she remembered him wearing
a straw hat, also his leaving the boat at Sharon, a bit of evidence
which most fully confirmed that of the captain of the boat and caused
Mason to feel that Providence or Fate was working with him. And last,
but most important of all to him, there came a communication from a
woman residing in Bedford, Pennsylvania, who announced that during the
week of July third to tenth, she and her husband had been camping on
the east shore of Big Bittern, near the southern end of the lake. And
while rowing on the lake on the afternoon of July eighth, at about six
o'clock, she had heard a cry which sounded like that of a woman or
girl in distress--a plaintive, mournful cry. It was very faint and had
seemed to come from beyond the island which was to the south and west
of the bay in which they were fishing.

Mason now proposed to remain absolutely silent regarding this
information, and that about the camera and films and the data regarding
Clyde's offense in Kansas City, until nearer the day of trial, or
during the trial itself, when it would be impossible for the defense to
attempt either to refute or ameliorate it in any way.

As for Belknap and Jephson, apart from drilling Clyde in the matter of
his general denial based on his change of heart once he had arrived at
Grass Lake, and the explanation of the two hats and the bag, they could
not see that there was much to do. True, there was the suit thrown in
Fourth Lake near the Cranstons, but after much trolling on the part of
a seemingly casual fisherman, that was brought up, cleaned and pressed,
and now hung in a locked closet in the Belknap and Jephson office.
Also, there was the camera at Big Bittern, dived for but never found
by them--a circumstance which led Jephson to conclude that Mason must
have it, and so caused him to decide that he would refer to it at the
earliest possible opportunity at the trial. But as for Clyde striking
her with it, even accidentally, well, it was decided at that time at
least, to contend that he had not--although after exhuming Roberta's
body at Biltz it had been found that the marks on her face, even at
this date, did correspond in some degree to the size and shape of the
camera.

For, in the first place, they were exceedingly dubious of Clyde as a
witness. Would he or would he not, in telling of how it all happened,
be sufficiently direct or forceful and sincere to convince any jury
that he had so struck her without intending to strike her? For on that,
marks or no marks, would depend whether the jury was going to believe
him. And if it did not believe that he struck her accidentally, then a
verdict of guilty, of course.

And so they prepared to await the coming of the trial, only working
betimes and in so far as they dared, to obtain testimony or evidence
as to Clyde's previous good character, but being blocked to a degree
by the fact that in Lycurgus, while pretending to be a model youth
outwardly, he had privately been conducting himself otherwise, and that
in Kansas City his first commercial efforts had resulted in such a
scandal.

However, one of the most difficult matters in connection with Clyde
and his incarceration here, as Belknap and Jephson as well as the
prosecution saw it, was the fact that thus far not one single member of
his own or his uncle's family had come forward to champion him. And to
no one save Belknap and Jephson had he admitted where his parents were.
Yet would it not be necessary, as both Belknap and Jephson argued from
time to time, if any case at all were to be made out for him, to have
his mother or father, or at least a sister or a brother, come forward
to say a good word for him? Otherwise, Clyde might appear to be a
pariah, one who had been from the first a drifter and a waster and was
now purposely being avoided by all who knew him.

For this reason, at their conference with Darrah Brookhart they had
inquired after Clyde's parents and had learned that in so far as the
Griffiths of Lycurgus were concerned, there lay a deep objection to
bringing on any member of this western branch of the family. There
was, as he explained, a great social gap between them, which it would
not please the Lycurgus Griffiths to have exploited here. Besides, who
could say but that once Clyde's parents were notified or discovered
by the yellow press, they might not lend themselves to exploitation.
Both Samuel and Gilbert Griffiths, as Brookhart now informed Belknap,
had suggested that it was best, if Clyde did not object, to keeping
his immediate relatives in the background. In fact, on this, in some
measure at least, was likely to depend the extent of their financial
aid to Clyde.

Clyde was in accord with this wish of the Griffiths, although no one
who talked with him sufficiently or heard him express how sorry he
was on his mother's account that all this had happened, could doubt
the quality of the blood and emotional tie that held him and his
mother together. The complete truth was that his present attitude
toward her was a mixture of fear and shame because of the manner in
which she was likely to view his predicament--his moral if not his
social failure. Would she be willing to believe the story prepared by
Belknap and Jephson as to his change of heart? But even apart from
that, to have her come here now and look at him through these bars
when he was so disgraced--to be compelled to face her and talk to
her day after day! Her clear, inquiring, tortured eyes! Her doubt as
to his innocence, since he could feel that even Belknap and Jephson,
in spite of all their plans for him, were still a little dubious as
to that unintentional blow of his. They did not really believe it,
and they might tell her that. And would his religious, God-fearing,
crime-abhorring mother be more credulous than they?

Being asked again what he thought ought to be done about his parents,
he replied that he did not believe he could face his mother yet--it
would do no good and would only torture both.

And fortunately, as he saw it, apparently no word of all that had
befallen him had yet reached his parents in Denver. Because of their
peculiar religious and moral beliefs, all copies of worldly and
degenerate daily papers were consistently excluded from their home and
Mission. And the Lycurgus Griffiths had had no desire to inform them.

Yet one night, at about the time that Belknap and Jephson were most
seriously debating the absence of his parents and what, if anything,
should be done about it, Esta, who some time after Clyde had arrived in
Lycurgus had married and was living in the southeast portion of Denver,
chanced to read in _The Rocky Mountain News_--and this just subsequent
to Clyde's indictment by the Grand Jury at Bridgeburg:

                 "BOY SLAYER OF WORKING GIRL INDICTED

    "Bridgeburg, N. Y., Aug. 6: A special Grand Jury appointed by
    Governor Stouderback, of this state, to sit in the case of Clyde
    Griffiths, the nephew of the wealthy collar manufacturer of the
    same name, of Lycurgus, New York, recently charged with the killing
    of Miss Roberta Alden, of Biltz, New York, at Big Bittern Lake in
    the Adirondacks on July 8th last, to-day returned an indictment
    charging murder in the first degree.

    "Subsequent to the indictment, Griffiths, who in spite of almost
    overwhelming evidence, has persisted in asserting that the alleged
    crime was an accident, and who, accompanied by his counsel, Alvin
    Belknap, and Reuben Jephson, of this city, was arraigned before
    Supreme Court Justice Oberwaltzer, pleaded not guilty. He was
    remanded for trial, which was set for October 15th.

    "Young Griffiths, who is only twenty-two years of age, and up to
    the day of his arrest a respected member of Lycurgus smart society,
    is alleged to have stunned and then drowned his working-girl
    sweetheart, whom he had wronged and then planned to desert in favor
    of a richer girl. The lawyers in this case, have been retained by
    his wealthy uncle of Lycurgus, who has hitherto remained aloof.
    But apart from this, it is locally asserted, no relative has come
    forward to aid in his defense."

Esta forthwith made a hurried departure for her mother's home. Despite
the directness and clarity of this she was not willing to believe
it was Clyde. Still there was the damning force of geography and
names--the rich Lycurgus Griffiths, the absence of his own relatives.

As quickly as the local street car would carry her, she now presented
herself at the combined lodging house and mission known as the "Star of
Hope," in Bidwell Street, which was scarcely better than that formerly
maintained in Kansas City. For while it provided a number of rooms
for wayfarers at twenty-five cents a night, and was supposed to be
self-supporting, it entailed much work with hardly any more profit.
Besides, by now, both Frank and Julia, who long before this had become
irked by the drab world in which they found themselves, had earnestly
sought to free themselves of it, leaving the burden of the mission
work on their father and mother. Julia, now nineteen, was cashiering
for a local downtown restaurant, and Frank, nearing seventeen, had
but recently found work in a fruit and vegetable commission house. In
fact, the only child about the place by day was little Russell, the
illegitimate son of Esta--now between three and four years of age, and
most reservedly fictionalized by his grandparents as an orphan whom
they had adopted in Kansas City. He was a dark-haired child, in some
ways resembling Clyde, who, even at this early age, as Clyde had been
before him, was being instructed in those fundamental verities which
had irritated Clyde in his own childhood.

At the time that Esta, now a decidedly subdued and reserved wife,
entered, Mrs. Griffiths was busy sweeping and dusting and making up
beds. But on sight of her daughter at this unusual hour approaching,
and with blanched cheeks signalling her to come inside the door of a
vacant room, Mrs. Griffiths, who, because of years of difficulties of
various kinds, was more or less accustomed to scenes such as this, now
paused in wonder, the swiftly beclouding mist of apprehension shining
in her eyes. What new misery or ill was this? For decidedly Esta's weak
gray eyes and manner indicated distress. And in her hand was folded a
paper, which she opened and after giving her mother a most solicitous
look, pointed to the item, toward which Mrs. Griffiths now directed her
look. But what was this?

           "BOY SLAYER OF WORKING-GIRL SWEETHEART INDICTED."

"CHARGED WITH THE KILLING OF MISS ROBERTA ALDEN AT BIG BITTERN LAKE IN
                   THE ADIRONDACKS ON JULY 8 LAST."

      "RETURNED INDICTMENT CHARGING MURDER IN THE FIRST DEGREE."

      "IN SPITE OF ALMOST OVERWHELMING CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE."

                         "PLEADED NOT GUILTY."

                         "REMANDED FOR TRIAL."

                         "SET FOR OCTOBER 15."

          "STUNNED AND DROWNED HIS WORKING-GIRL SWEETHEART."

                    "NO RELATIVE HAS COME FORWARD."

It was thus that her eye and her mind automatically selected the most
essential lines. And then as swiftly going over them again.

    "CLYDE GRIFFITHS, NEPHEW OF THE WEALTHY COLLAR MANUFACTURER OF
    LYCURGUS, NEW YORK."

Clyde--her son! And only recently--but no, over a month ago--(and they
had been worrying a little as to that, she and Asa, because he had
not--) July 8th! And it was now August 11th! Then--yes! But not her
son! Impossible! Clyde the murderer of a girl who was his sweetheart!
But he was not like that! He had written to her how he was getting
along--the head of a large department, with a future. But of no girl.
But now! And yet that other little girl there in Kansas City. Merciful
God! And the Griffiths, of Lycurgus, her husband's brother, knowing of
this and not writing! Ashamed, disgusted, no doubt. Indifferent. But
no, he had hired two lawyers. Yet the horror! Asa! Her other children!
What the papers would say! This mission! They would have to give it up
and go somewhere else again. Yet was he guilty or not guilty? She must
know that before judging or thinking. This paper said he had pleaded
not guilty. Oh, that wretched, worldly, showy hotel in Kansas City!
Those other bad boys! Those two years in which he had wandered here and
there, not writing, passing as Harry Tenet. Doing what? Learning what?

She paused, full of that intense misery and terror which no faith in
the revealed and comforting verities of God and mercy and salvation
which she was always proclaiming, could for the moment fend against.
Her boy! Her Clyde! In jail, accused of murder! She must wire! She
must write! She must go, maybe. But how to get the money! What to do
when she got there. How to get the courage--the faith--to endure it.
Yet again, neither Asa nor Frank nor Julia must know. Asa, with his
protesting and yet somehow careworn faith, his weak eyes and weakening
body. And must Frank and Julia, now just starting out in life, be
saddled with this? Marked thus?

Merciful God! Would her troubles never end?

She turned, her big, work-worn hands trembling slightly, shaking the
paper she held, while Esta, who sympathized greatly with her mother
these days because of all she had been compelled to endure, stood
by. She looked so tired at times, and now to be racked by this!
Yet, as she knew, her mother was the strongest in the family--so
erect, so square-shouldered, defiant--a veritable soul pilot in her
cross-grained, uniformed way.

"Mamma, I just can't believe it can be Clyde," was all Esta could say
now. "It just can't be, can it?"

But Mrs. Griffiths merely continued to stare at that ominous headline,
then swiftly ran her gray-blue eyes over the room. Her broad face was
blanched and dignified by an enormous strain and an enormous pain. Her
erring, misguided, no doubt unfortunate, son, with all his wild dreams
of getting on and up, was in danger of death, of being electrocuted for
a crime--for murder! He had killed some one--a poor working-girl, the
paper said.

"Ssh!" she whispered, putting one finger to her own lips as a sign.
"He" (indicating Asa) "must not know yet, anyhow. We must wire first,
or write. You can have the answers come to you, maybe. I will give you
the money. But I must sit down somewhere now for a minute. I feel a
little weak. I'll sit here. Let me have the Bible."

On the small dresser was a Gideon Bible, which, sitting on the edge of
the commonplace iron bed, she now opened instinctively at Psalms 3 and
4.

"Lord, how are they increased that trouble."

"Hear me, when I call, O God of my righteousness."

And then reading on silently, even placidly apparently, through 6, 8,
10, 13, 23, 91, while Esta stood by in silent amazement and misery.

"Oh, mamma, I just can't believe it. Oh, this is too terrible!" But
Mrs. Griffiths read on. It was as if, and in spite of all this, she had
been able to retreat into some still, silent place, where, for the time
being at least, no evil human ill could reach her. Then at last, quite
calmly closing the book, and rising, she went on:

"Now, we must think out what to say and who to send that telegram to--I
mean to Clyde, of course--at that place, wherever it is--Bridgeburg,"
she added, looking at the paper, and then interpolating from the
Bible--"By terrible things in righteousness wilt thou answer us, O
God!" "Or, maybe, those two lawyers--their names are there. I'm afraid
to wire Asa's brother for fear he'll wire back to him." (Then: 'Thou
art my bulwark and my strength. In Thee will I trust.') "But I suppose
they would give it to him if we sent it care of that judge or those
lawyers, don't you think? But it would be better if we could send it to
him direct, I suppose. ('He leadeth me by the still waters.') Just say
that I have read about him and still have faith in and love for him,
but he is to tell me the truth and what to do. If he needs money we
will have to see what we can do, I suppose. ('He restoreth my soul.')"

And then, despite her sudden peace of the moment, she once more began
wringing her large, rough hands. "Oh, it can't be true. Oh, dear, no!
After all, he is my son. We all love him and have faith. We must say
that. God will deliver him. Watch and pray. Have faith. Under his wings
shalt thou trust."

She was so beside herself that she scarcely knew what she was saying.
And Esta, at her side, was saying: "Yes, mamma! Oh, of course! Yes,
I will! I know he'll get it all right." But she, too, was saying to
herself: "My God! My God! What could be worse than this--to be accused
of murder! But, of course, it can't be true. It can't be true. If he
should hear!" (She was thinking of her husband.) "And after Russell,
too. And Clyde's trouble there in Kansas City. Poor mamma. She has so
much trouble."

Together, after a time, and avoiding Asa who was in an adjoining room
helping with the cleaning, the two made their way to the general
mission room below, where was silence and many placards which
proclaimed the charity, the wisdom, and the sustaining righteousness of
God.




                             CHAPTER XVIII


The telegram, worded in the spirit just described, was forthwith
despatched care of Belknap and Jephson, who immediately counseled Clyde
what to reply--that all was well with him; that he had the best of
advice and would need no financial aid. Also that until his lawyers
advised it, it would be best if no member of the family troubled
to appear, since everything that could possibly be done to aid him
was already being done. At the same time they wrote Mrs. Griffiths,
assuring her of their interest in Clyde and advising her to let matters
rest as they were for the present.

Despite the fact that the Griffiths were thus restrained from
appearing in the east, neither Belknap nor Jephson were averse to some
news of the existence, whereabouts, faith and sympathy of Clyde's
most immediate relatives creeping into the newspapers, since the
latter were so persistent in referring to his isolation. And in this
connection they were aided by the fact that his mother's telegram on
being received in Bridgeburg was at once read by individuals who were
particularly interested in the case and by them whispered to the public
and the press, with the result that in Denver the family was at once
sought out and interviewed. And shortly after, there was circulated in
all the papers east and west a more or less complete account of the
present state of Clyde's family, the nature of the mission conducted
by them, as well as their narrow and highly individualistic religious
beliefs and actions, even the statement that often in his early youth
Clyde had been taken into the streets to sing and pray--a revelation
which shocked Lycurgus and Twelfth Lake society about as much as it did
him.

At the same time, Mrs. Griffiths, being an honest woman and
whole-heartedly sincere in her faith and in the good of her work, did
not hesitate to relate to reporter after reporter who called, all the
details of the missionary work of her husband and herself in Denver and
elsewhere. Also that neither Clyde nor any of the other children had
ever enjoyed the opportunities that come to most. However, her boy,
whatever the present charge might be, was not innately bad, and she
could not believe that he was guilty of any such crime. It was all
an unfortunate and accidental combination of circumstances which he
would explain at the trial. However, whatever foolish thing he might
have done, it was all to be attributed to an unfortunate accident
which broke up the mission work in Kansas City a few years before and
compelled the removal of the family from there to Denver, leaving Clyde
to make his way alone. And it was because of advice from her that he
had written her husband's rich brother in Lycurgus, which led to his
going there--a series of statements which caused Clyde in his cell to
tingle with a kind of prideful misery and resentment and forced him to
write his mother and complain. Why need she always talk so much about
the past and the work that she and his father were connected with, when
she knew that he had never liked it and resented going on the streets?
Many people didn't see it as she and his father did, particularly his
uncle and cousin and all those rich people he had come to know, and who
were able to make their way in so different and much more brilliant
fashion. And now, as he said to himself, Sondra would most certainly
read this--all that he had hoped to conceal.

Yet even in the face of all this, because of so much sincerity and
force in his mother, he could not help but think of her with affection
and respect, and because of her sure and unfailing love for him, with
emotion. For in answer to his letter she wrote that she was sorry if
she had hurt his feelings or injured him in any way. But must not the
truth be shown always? The ways of God were for the best and surely
no harm could spring from service in His cause. He must not ask her
to lie. But if he said the word, she would so gladly attempt to raise
the necessary money and come to his aid--sit in his cell and plan
with him--holding his hands--but as Clyde so well knew and thought
at this time and which caused him to decide that she must not come
yet--demanding of him the truth--with those clear, steady blue eyes of
hers looking into his own. He could not stand that now.

For, frowning directly before him, like a huge and basalt headland
above a troubled and angry sea, was the trial itself, with all that it
implied--the fierce assault of Mason which he could only confront, for
the most part, with the lies framed for him by Jephson and Belknap.
For, although he was constantly seeking to salve his conscience with
the thought that at the last moment he had not had the courage to
strike Roberta, nevertheless this other story was so terribly difficult
for him to present and defend--a fact which both Belknap and Jephson
realized and which caused the latter to appear most frequently at
Clyde's cell door with the greeting: "Well, how's tricks to-day?"

The peculiarly rusty and disheveled and indifferently tailored
character of Jephson's suits! The worn and disarranged effect of his
dark brown soft hat, pulled low over his eyes! His long, bony, knotty
hands, suggesting somehow an enormous tensile strength. And the hard,
small blue eyes filled with a shrewd, determined cunning and courage,
with which he was seeking to inoculate Clyde, and which somehow did
inoculate him!

"Any more preachers around to-day? Any more country girls or Mason's
boys?" For during this time, because of the enormous interest aroused
by the pitiable death of Roberta, as well as the evidence of her rich
and beautiful rival, Clyde was being visited by every type of shallow
crime-or-sex-curious country bumpkin lawyer, doctor, merchant, yokel
evangelist or minister, all friends or acquaintances of one or another
of the officials of the city, and who, standing before his cell door
betimes, and at the most unexpected moments, and after surveying him
with curious, or resentful, or horrified eyes, asked such questions
as: "Do you pray, brother? Do you get right down on your knees and
pray?" (Clyde was reminded of his mother and father at such times.)
Had he made his peace with God? Did he actually deny that he had
killed Roberta Alden? In the case of three country girls: "Would you
mind telling us the name of the girl you are supposed to be in love
with, and where she is now? We won't tell any one. Will she appear at
the trial?" Questions which Clyde could do no more than ignore, or if
not, answer as equivocally or evasively or indifferently as possible.
For although he was inclined to resent them, still was he not being
constantly instructed by both Belknap and Jephson that for the good of
his own cause he must try to appear genial and civil and optimistic?
Then there came also newspaper men, or women, accompanied by artists or
photographers, to interview and make studies of him. But with these,
for the most part and on the advice of Belknap and Jephson he refused
to communicate or said only what he was told to say.

"You can talk all you want," suggested Jephson, genially, "so long as
you don't say anything. And the stiff upper lip, you know. And the
smile that won't come off, see? Not failing to go over that list, are
you?" (He had provided Clyde with a long list of possible questions
which no doubt would be asked him on the stand and which he was to
answer according to answers typewritten beneath them, or to suggest
something better. They all related to the trip to Big Bittern, his
reason for the extra hat, his change of heart--why, when, where.)
"That's your litany, you know." And then he might light a cigarette
without ever offering one to Clyde, since for the sake of a reputation
for sobriety he was not to smoke here.

And for a time, after each visit, Clyde finding himself believing that
he could and would do exactly as Jephson had said--walk briskly and
smartly into court--bear up against every one, every eye, even that
of Mason himself--forget that he was afraid of him, even when on the
witness stand--forget all the terror of those many facts in Mason's
possession, which he was to explain with this list of answers--forget
Roberta and her last cry, and all the heartache and misery that went
with the loss of Sondra and her bright world.

Yet, with the night having once more fallen, or the day dragging on
with only the lean and bearded Kraut or the sly and evasive Sissell,
or both, hanging about, or coming to the door to say, "Howdy!" or to
discuss something that had occurred in town, or to play chess, or
checkers, Clyde growing more and more moody and deciding, maybe, that
there was no real hope for him after all. For how alone he was, except
for his attorneys and mother and brother and sisters! Never a word from
Sondra, of course. For along with her recovery to some extent from her
original shock and horror, she was now thinking somewhat differently of
him--that after all it was for love of her, perhaps, that he had slain
Roberta and made himself the pariah and victim that he now was. Yet,
because of the immense prejudice and horror expressed by the world,
she was by no means able to think of venturing to send him a word. Was
he not a murderer? And in addition, that miserable western family of
his, pictured as street preachers, and he, too,--or as a singing and
praying boy from a mission! Yet occasionally returning in thought, and
this quite in spite of herself, to his eager, unreasoning and seemingly
consuming enthusiasm for her. (How deeply he must have cared to venture
upon so deadly a deed!) And hence wondering whether at some time, once
this case was less violently before the public eye, it might not be
possible to communicate with him in some guarded and unsigned way,
just to let him know, perhaps, that because of his great love for her
she desired him to know that he was not entirely forgotten. Yet as
instantly deciding, _no_, no--her parents--if they should learn--or
guess--or the public, or her one-time associates. Not now, oh, not
now at least. Maybe later if he were set free--or--or--convicted--she
couldn't tell. Yet suffering heart-aches for the most part--as much as
she detested and abhorred the horrible crime by which he had sought to
win her.

And in the interim, Clyde in his cell, walking to and fro, or looking
out on the dull square through the heavily barred windows, or reading
and re-reading the newspapers, or nervously turning the pages of
magazines or books furnished by his counsel, or playing chess or
checkers, or eating his meals, which, by special arrangement on the
part of Belknap and Jephson (made at the request of his uncle),
consisted of better dishes than were usually furnished to the ordinary
prisoner.

Yet with the iterated and reiterated thought, based on the seemingly
irreparable and irreconcilable loss of Sondra, as to whether it was
possible for him to go on with this--make this, as he at times saw it,
almost useless fight.

At times, in the middle of the night or just before dawn, with all the
prison silent--dreams--a ghastly picture of all that he most feared
and that dispelled every trace of courage and drove him instantly
to his feet, his heart pounding wildly, his eyes strained, a cold
damp upon his face and hands. That chair, somewhere in the State
penitentiary. He had read of it--how men died in it. And then he would
walk up and down, thinking how, how, in case it did not come about as
Jephson felt so sure that it would--in case he was convicted and a new
trial refused--then, well--then, might one be able to break out of
such a jail as this, maybe, and run away? These old brick walls. How
thick were they? But was it possible that with a hammer or a stone,
or something that some one might bring him--his brother Frank, or
his sister Julia, or Ratterer, or Hegglund--if only he could get in
communication with some one of them and get him or her to bring him
something of the kind----If only he could get a saw, to saw those bars!
And then run, run, as he should have in those woods up there that time!
But how? And whither?




                              CHAPTER XIX


October 15--with gray clouds and a sharp, almost January wind that
herded the fallen leaves into piles and then scurried them in crisp
and windy gusts like flying birds here and there. And, in spite of the
sense of struggle and tragedy in the minds of many, with an electric
chair as the shadowy mental background to it all, a sense of holiday
or festival, with hundreds of farmers, woodsmen, traders, entering in
Fords and Buicks--farmer wives and husbands--daughters and sons--even
infants in arms. And then idling about the public square long before
the time for court to convene, or, as the hour neared, congregating
before the county jail in the hope of obtaining a glimpse of Clyde,
or before the courthouse door nearest the jail, which was to be the
one entrance to the courtroom for the public and Clyde, and from which
position they could see and assure entrance into the courtroom itself
when the time came. And a flock of pigeons parading rather dismally
along the cornices and gutters of the upper floor and roof of the
ancient court.

And with Mason and his staff--Burton Burleigh, Earl Newcomb,
Zillah Saunders, and a young Bridgeburg law graduate by the name
of Manigault--helping to arrange the order of evidence as well as
direct or instruct the various witnesses and venire-men who were
already collecting in the ante-chamber of the now almost nationally
known attorney for the people. And with cries outside of: "Peanuts!"
"Popcorn!" "Hot dogs!" "Get the story of Clyde Griffiths, with all the
letters of Roberta Alden. Only twenty-five cents!" (This being a set
of duplicate copies of Roberta's letters which had been stolen from
Mason's office by an intimate of Burton Burleigh's and by him sold
to a penny-dreadful publisher of Binghamton, who immediately issued
them in pamphlet form together with an outline of "the great plot" and
Roberta's and Clyde's pictures.)

And in the meantime, over in the reception or conference room of the
jail, Alvin Belknap and Reuben Jephson, side by side with Clyde, neatly
arrayed in the very suit he had sought to sink forever in the waters
of Lower Twelfth Lake. And with a new tie and shirt and shoes added in
order to present him in his Lycurgus best. Jephson, long and lean and
shabbily dressed as usual, but with all of that iron and power that
so impressed Clyde in every line of his figure and every movement or
gesture of his body. Belknap--looking like an Albany beau--the one on
whom was to fall the burden of the opening presentation of the case
as well as the cross-examining, now saying: "Now you're not going to
get frightened or show any evidence of nervousness at anything that
may be said or done at any time, are you, Clyde? We're to be with you,
you know, all through the trial. You sit right between us. And you're
going to smile and look unconcerned or interested, just as you wish,
but never fearful--but not too bold or gay, you know, so that they'd
feel that you're not taking this thing seriously. You understand--just
a pleasant, gentlemanly, and sympathetic manner all the time. And not
frightened. For that will be certain to do us and you great harm. Since
you're innocent, you have no real reason to be frightened--although
you're sorry, of course. You understand all that, I know, by now."

"Yes, sir, I understand," replied Clyde. "I will do just as you say.
Besides, I never struck her intentionally, and that's the truth. So
why should I be afraid?" And here he looked at Jephson, on whom, for
psychic reasons, he depended most. In fact the words he had just spoken
were the very words which Jephson had so drilled into him during the
two months just past. And catching the look, Jephson now drew closer
and fixing Clyde with his gimlet and yet encouraging and sustaining
blue eyes, began:

"You're not guilty! You're not guilty, Clyde, see? You understand that
fully by now, and you must always believe and remember that, because
it's true. You didn't intend to strike her, do you hear? You swear to
that. You have sworn it to me and Belknap here, and we believe you.
Now, it doesn't make the least bit of difference that because of the
circumstances surrounding all this we are not going to be able to make
the average jury see this or believe it just as you tell it. That's
neither here nor there. I've told you that before. You know what the
truth is--and so do we. _But_, in order to get justice for you, we've
had to get up something else--a dummy or substitute for the real fact,
which is that you didn't strike her intentionally, but which we cannot
hope to make them see without disguising it in some way. You get that,
don't you?"

"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, always over-awed and intrigued by this man.

"And for that reason, as I've so often told you, we've invented this
other story about a change of heart. It's not quite true as to time,
but it is true that you did experience a change of heart there in the
boat. And that's our justification. But they'd never believe that
under all of the peculiar circumstances, so we're merely going to move
that change of heart up a little, see? Make it before you ever went
into that boat at all. And while we know it isn't true that way, still
neither is the charge that you intentionally struck her true, and
they're not going to electrocute you for something that isn't true--not
with my consent, at least." He looked into Clyde's eyes for a moment
more, and then added: "It's this way, Clyde. It's like having to pay
for potatoes, or for suits of clothes, with corn or beans instead of
money, when you have money to pay with but when, because of the crazy
notions on the part of some one, they won't believe that the money you
have is genuine. So you've got to use the potatoes or beans. And beans
is what we're going to give 'em. But the justification is that you're
not guilty. You're not guilty. You've sworn to me that you didn't
intend to strike her there at the last, whatever you might have been
provoked to do at first. And that's enough for me. You're not guilty."

And here, firmly and convincingly, which was the illusion in regard to
his own attitude which he was determined to convey to Clyde, he laid
hold of his coat lapels, and after looking fixedly into his somewhat
strained and now nervous brown eyes, added: "And now, whenever you
get to feeling weak or nervous, or if, when you go on the stand,
you think Mason is getting the best of you, I want you to remember
this--just say to yourself--'I'm not guilty! I'm not guilty! And they
can't fairly convict me unless I really am.' And if that don't pull
you together, look at me. I'll be right there. All you have to do, if
you feel yourself getting rattled, is to look at me--right into my
eyes, just as I'm looking at you now--and then you'll know that I'm
wanting you to brace up and do what I'm telling you to do now--swear to
the things that we are asking you to swear to, however they may look
like lies, and however you may feel about them. I'm not going to have
you convicted for something you didn't do, just because you can't be
allowed to swear to what is the truth--not if I can help it. And now
that's all."

And here he slapped him genially and heartily on the back, while Clyde,
strangely heartened, felt, for the time being at least, that certainly
he could do as he was told, and would.

And then Jephson, taking out his watch and looking first at Belknap,
then out of the nearest window through which were to be seen the
already assembled crowds--one about the courthouse steps; a second,
including newspapermen and women, newspaper photographers and artists,
gathered closely before the jail walk, and eagerly waiting to "snap"
Clyde or any one connected with this case--went calmly on with:

"Well, it's about time, I guess. Looks as though all Cataraqui would
like to get inside. We're going to have quite an audience." And turning
to Clyde once more, he added: "Now, you don't want to let those people
disturb you, Clyde. They're nothing but a lot of country people come to
town to see a show."

And then the two of them, Belknap and Jephson, going out. And Kraut
and Sissell coming in to take personal charge of Clyde, while the two
lawyers, passing amid whispers, crossed over to the court building in
the square of brown grass beyond.

And after them, and in less than five minutes, and preceded by Slack
and Sissell and followed by Kraut and Swenk--yet protected on either
side by two extra deputies in case there should be an outbreak or
demonstration of any kind--Clyde himself, attempting to look as
jaunty and nonchalant as possible, yet because of the many rough and
strange faces about him--men in heavy raccoon coats and caps, and with
thick whiskers, or in worn and faded and nondescript clothes such as
characterized many of the farmers of this region, accompanied by their
wives and children, and all staring so strangely and curiously--he felt
not a little nervous, as though at any moment there might be a revolver
shot, or some one might leap at him with a knife--the deputies with
their hands on their guns lending not a little to the reality of his
mood. Yet only cries of: "Here he comes! Here he comes!" "There he is!"
"Would you believe that he could do a thing like that?"

And then the cameras clicking and whirring and his two protectors
shouldering closer and closer to him while he shrank down within
himself mentally.

And then a flight of five brown stone steps leading up to an old
courthouse door. And beyond that, an inner flight of steps to a large,
long, brown, high-ceilinged chamber, in which, to the right and left,
and in the rear facing east, were tall, thin, round-topped windows,
fitted with thin panes, admitting a flood of light. And at the west
end, a raised platform, with a highly ornamental, dark brown carved
bench upon it. And behind it, a portrait--and on either side, north
and south, and at the rear, benches and benches in rows--each tier
higher than the other, and all crowded with people, the space behind
them packed with standing bodies, and all apparently, as he entered,
leaning and craning and examining him with sharp keen eyes, while there
went about a conversational buzz or brrh. He could hear a general
sssss--pppp--as he approached and passed through a gate to an open
space beyond it, wherein, as he could see, were Belknap and Jephson at
a table, and between them a vacant chair for him. And he could see and
feel the eyes and faces on which he was not quite willing to look.

But directly before him, at another table in the same square, but
more directly below the raised platform at the west end, as he could
see now, were Mason and several men whom he seemed to recollect--Earl
Newcomb and Burton Burleigh and yet another man whom he had never seen
before, all four turning and gazing at him as he came.

And about this inner group, an outer circle of men and women writers
and sketch artists.

And then, after a time, recalling Belknap's advice, he managed to
straighten up and with an air of studied ease and courage--which was
belied to a certain extent by his strained, pale face and somewhat hazy
stare--look at the writers and artists who were either studying or
sketching him, and even to whisper: "Quite a full house, eh?" But just
then, and before he could say anything more, a resounding whack, whack,
from somewhere. And then a voice: "Order in the Court! His Honor, the
Court! Everybody please rise!" And as suddenly the whispering and
stirring audience growing completely silent. And then, through a door
to the south of the dais, a large, urbane and florid and smooth-faced
man, who, in an ample black gown, walked swiftly to the large chair
immediately behind the desk, and after looking steadily upon all before
him, but without appearing to see any one of them, seated himself.
Whereupon every one assembled in the courtroom sat down.

And then to the left, yet below the judge, at a smaller desk, a smaller
and older individual standing and calling, "Oyez! Oyez! All persons
having business before the honorable, the Supreme Court of the State of
New York, County of Cataraqui, draw near and give attention. This court
is now in session!"

And after that this same individual again rising and beginning: "The
State of New York against Clyde Griffiths." Then Mason, rising and
standing before his table, at once announced: "The People are ready."
Whereupon Belknap arose, and in a courtly and affable manner, stated:
"The defendant is ready."

Then the same clerk reached into a square box that was before him, and
drawing forth a piece of paper, called "Simeon Dinsmore," whereupon
a little, hunched and brown-suited man, with claw-like hands, and a
ferret-like face, immediately scuttled to the jury box and was seated.
And once there he was approached by Mason, who, in a brisk manner--his
flat-nosed face looking most aggressive and his strong voice reaching
to the uttermost corners of the court, began to inquire as to his age,
his business, whether he was single or married, how many children he
had, whether he believed or did not believe in capital punishment. The
latter question as Clyde at once noted seemed to stir in him something
akin to resentment or suppressed emotion of some kind, for at once and
with emphasis, he answered: "I most certainly do--for some people"--a
reply which caused Mason to smile slightly and Jephson to turn and look
toward Belknap, who mumbled sarcastically: "And they talk about the
possibility of a fair trial here." But at the same time Mason feeling
that this very honest, if all too convinced farmer, was a little too
emphatic in his beliefs, saying: "With the consent of the Court, the
People will excuse the talesman." And Belknap, after an inquiring
glance from the Judge, nodding his agreement, at which the prospective
juror was excused.

And the clerk, immediately drawing out of the box a second slip of
paper, and then calling: "Dudley Sheerline!" Whereupon, a thin, tall
man of between thirty-eight and forty, neatly dressed and somewhat
meticulous and cautious in his manner, approached and took his place in
the box. And Mason once more began to question him as he had the other.

In the meantime, Clyde, in spite of both Belknap's and Jephson's
preliminary precautions, was already feeling stiff and chill and
bloodless. For, decidedly, as he could feel, this audience was
inimical. And amid this closely pressing throng, as he now thought,
with an additional chill, there must be the father and mother, perhaps
also the sisters and brothers, of Roberta, and all looking at him, and
hoping with all their hearts, as the newspapers during the weeks past
informed him, that he would be made to suffer for this.

And again, all those people of Lycurgus and Twelfth Lake, no one of
whom had troubled to communicate with him in any way, assuming him
to be absolutely guilty, of course--were any of those here? Jill
or Gertrude or Tracy Trumbull, for instance? Or Wynette Phant or
her brother? She had been at that camp at Bear Lake the day he was
arrested. His mind ran over all the social personages whom he had
encountered during the last year and who would now see him as he
was--poor and commonplace and deserted, and on trial for such a crime
as this. And after all his bluffing about his rich connections here and
in the west. For now, of course, they would believe him as terrible
as his original plot, without knowing or caring about his side of
the story--his moods and fears--that predicament that he was in with
Roberta--his love for Sondra and all that she had meant to him. They
wouldn't understand that, and he was not going to be allowed to tell
anything in regard to it, even if he were so minded.

And yet, because of the advice of Belknap and Jephson, he must sit up
and smile, or at least look pleasant and meet the gaze of every one
boldly and directly. And in consequence, turning, and for the moment
feeling absolutely transfixed. For there--God, what a resemblance!--to
the left of him on one of those wall benches, was a woman or girl who
appeared to be the living image of Roberta! It was that sister of
hers--Emily--of whom she had often spoken--but oh, what a shock! His
heart almost stopped. It might even be Roberta! And transfixing him
with what ghostly, and yet real, and savage and accusing eyes! And
next to her another girl, looking something like her, too--and next to
her that old man, Roberta's father--that wrinkled old man whom he had
encountered that day he had called at his farm door for information,
now looking at him almost savagely, a gray and weary look that said so
plainly: "You murderer! You murderer!" And beside him a mild and small
and ill-looking woman of about fifty, veiled and very shrunken and
sunken-eyed, who at his glance dropped her own eyes and turned away, as
if stricken with a great pain, not hate. Her mother--no doubt of it.
Oh, what a situation was this! How unthinkably miserable! His heart
fluttered. His hands trembled.

So now to stay himself, he looked down, first at the hands of Belknap
and Jephson on the table before him, since each was toying with a
pencil poised above the pad of paper before them, as they gazed at
Mason and whoever was in the jury box before him--a foolish-looking fat
man now. What a difference between Jephson's and Belknap's hands--the
latter so short and soft and white, the former's so long and brown
and knotty and bony. And Belknap's pleasant and agreeable manner here
in court--his voice--"I think I will ask the juror to step down"--as
opposed to Mason's revolver-like "Excused!" or Jephson's slow and yet
powerful, though whispered, "Better let him go, Alvin. Nothing in him
for us." And then all at once Jephson saying to him: "Sit up! Sit up!
Look around! Don't sag down like that. Look people in the eye. Smile
naturally, Clyde, if you're going to smile at all. Just look 'em in the
eye. They're not going to hurt you. They're just a lot of farmers out
sight-seeing."

But Clyde, noting at once that several reporters and artists were
studying and then sketching or writing of him, now flushed hotly and
weakly, for he could feel their eager eyes and their eager words
as clearly as he could hear their scratching pens. And all for the
papers--his blanching face and trembling hands--they would have that
down--and his mother in Denver and everybody else there in Lycurgus
would see and read--how he had looked at the Aldens and they had looked
at him and then he had looked away again. Still--still--he must get
himself better in hand--sit up once more and look about--or Jephson
would be disgusted with him. And so once more he did his best to crush
down his fear, to raise his eyes and then turn slightly and look about.

But in doing so, there next to the wall, and to one side of that tall
window, and just as he had feared, was Tracy Trumbull, who evidently
because of the law interest or his curiosity and what not--no pity or
sympathy for him, surely--had come up for this day anyhow, and was
looking, not at him for the moment, thank goodness, but at Mason,
who was asking the fat man some questions. And next to him Eddie
Sells, with nearsighted eyes equipped with thick lenses of great
distance-power, and looking in Clyde's direction, yet without seeing
him apparently, for he gave no sign. Oh, how trying all this!

And five rows from them again, in another direction, Mr. and Mrs.
Gilpin, whom Mason had found, of course. And what would they testify
to now? His calling on Roberta in her room there? And how secret it
had all been? That would be bad, of course. And of all people, Mr. and
Mrs. George Newton! What were they going to put them on the stand for?
To tell about Roberta's life before she got to going with him, maybe?
And that Grace Marr, whom he had seen often but met only once out there
on Crum Lake, and whom Roberta had not liked any more. What would she
have to say? She could tell how he had met Roberta, of course, but
what else? And then--but, no, it could not be--and yet--yet, it was,
too--surely--that Orrin Short, of whom he had asked concerning Glenn.
Gee!--he was going to tell about that now, maybe--no doubt of it. How
people seemed to remember things--more than ever he would have dreamed
they would have.

And again, this side of that third window from the front, but beyond
that dreaded group of the Aldens, that very large and whiskered man who
looked something like an old-time Quaker turned bandit--Heit was his
name. He had met him at Three Mile Bay, and again on that day on which
he had been taken up to Big Bittern against his will. Oh, yes, the
coroner he was. And beside him, that innkeeper up there who had made
him sign the register that day. And next to him the boathouse-keeper
who had rented him the boat. And next to him, that tall, lank guide
who had driven him and Roberta over from Gun Lodge, a brown and wiry
and loutish man who seemed to pierce him now with small, deep-set,
animal-like eyes, and who most certainly was going to testify to all
the details of that ride from Gun Lodge. Would his nervousness on that
day, and his foolish qualms, be as clearly remembered by him as they
were now by himself? And if so, how would that affect his plea of a
change of heart? Would he not better talk all that over again with
Jephson?

But this man Mason! How hard he was! How energetic! And how he must
have worked to get all of these people here to testify against him! And
now here he was, exclaiming as he chanced to look at him, and as he
had in at least the last dozen cases (yet with no perceptible result
in so far as the jury box was concerned), "Acceptable to the People!"
But, invariably, whenever he had done so, Jephson had merely turned
slightly, but without looking, and had said: "Nothing in him for us,
Alvin. As set as a bone." And then Belknap, courteous and bland, had
challenged for cause and usually succeeded in having his challenge
sustained.

But then at last, and oh, how agreeably, the clerk of the court
announcing in a clear, thin, rasping and aged voice, a recess until two
P. M. And Jephson smilingly turning to Clyde with: "Well, Clyde, that's
the first round--not so very much to it, do you think? And not very
hard either, is it? Better go over there and get a good meal, though.
It'll be just as long and dull this afternoon."

And in the meantime, Kraut and Sissell, together with the extra
deputies, pushing close and surrounding him. And then the crowding and
swarming and exclaiming: "There he is! There he is! Here he comes!
Here! Here!" And a large and meaty female pushing as close as possible
and staring directly into his face, exclaiming as she did so: "Let
me see him! I just want to get a good look at you, young man. I have
two daughters of my own." But without one of all those of Lycurgus or
Twelfth Lake whom he had recognized in the public benches, coming near
him. And no glimpse of Sondra anywhere, of course. For as both Belknap
and Jephson had repeatedly assured him, she would not appear. Her name
was not even to be mentioned, if possible. The Griffiths, as well as
the Finchleys, were opposed.




                              CHAPTER XX


And then five entire days consumed by Mason and Belknap in selecting
a jury. But at last the twelve men who were to try Clyde, sworn and
seated. And such men--odd and grizzled, or tanned and wrinkled, farmers
and country storekeepers, with here and there a Ford agent, a keeper of
an inn at Tom Dixon's Lake, a salesman in Hamburger's dry goods store
at Bridgeburg, and a peripatetic insurance agent residing in Purday
just north of Grass Lake. And with but one exception, all married. And
with but one exception, all religious, if not moral, and all convinced
of Clyde's guilt before ever they sat down, but still because of their
almost unanimous conception of themselves as fair and open-minded men,
and because they were so interested to sit as jurors in this exciting
case, convinced that they could pass fairly and impartially on the
facts presented to them.

And so, all rising and being sworn in.

And at once Mason rising and beginning: "Gentlemen of the jury."

And Clyde, as well as Belknap and Jephson, now gazing at them and
wondering what the impression of Mason's opening charge was likely to
be. For a more dynamic and electric prosecutor under these particular
circumstances was not to be found. This was his opportunity. Were not
the eyes of all the citizens of the United States upon him? He believed
so. It was as if some one had suddenly exclaimed: "Lights! Camera!"

"No doubt many of you have been wearied, as well as puzzled, at times
during the past week," he began, "by the exceeding care with which the
lawyers in this case have passed upon the panels from which you twelve
men have been chosen. It has been no light matter to find twelve men
to whom all the marshaled facts in this astonishing cause could be
submitted and by them weighed with all the fairness and understanding
which the law commands. For my part, the care which I have exercised,
gentlemen, has been directed by but one motive--that the state shall
have justice done. No malice, no pre-conceived notions of any kind. So
late as July 9th last I personally was not even aware of the existence
of this defendant, nor of his victim, nor of the crime with which he
is now charged. But, gentlemen, as shocked and unbelieving as I was
at first upon hearing that a man of the age, training and connections
of the defendant here could have placed himself in a position to be
accused of such an offense, step by step I was compelled to alter and
then dismiss forever from my mind my original doubts and to conclude
from the mass of evidence that was literally thrust upon me, that it
was my duty to prosecute this action in behalf of the people.

"But, however that may be, let us proceed to the facts. There are
two women in this action. One is dead. The other" (and he now turned
toward where Clyde sat, and here he pointed a finger in the direction
of Belknap and Jephson), "by agreement between the prosecution and the
defense is to be nameless here, since no good can come from inflicting
unnecessary injury. In fact, the sole purpose which I now announce to
you to be behind every word and every fact as it will be presented
by the prosecution is that exact justice, according to the laws of
this state and the crime with which this defendant is charged, shall
be done. _Exact justice_, gentlemen, exact and fair. But if you do
not act honestly and render a true verdict according to the evidence,
the people of the state of New York and the people of the county of
Cataraqui will have a grievance and a serious one. For it is they who
are looking to you for a true accounting for your reasoning and your
final decision in this case."

And here Mason paused, and then turning dramatically toward Clyde, and
with his right index finger pointing toward him at times, continued:
"The people of the State of New York _charge_," (and he hung upon this
one word as though he desired to give it the value of rolling thunder),
"that the crime of murder in the first degree has been committed by the
prisoner at the bar--Clyde Griffiths. They _charge_ that he willfully,
and with malice and cruelty and deception, murdered and then sought
to conceal forever from the knowledge and the justice of the world,
the body of Roberta Alden, the daughter of a farmer who has for years
resided near the village of Biltz, in Mimico County. They _charge_"
(and here Clyde, because of whispered advice from Jephson, was leaning
back as comfortably as possible and gazing as imperturbably as possible
upon the face of Mason, who was looking directly at him) "that this
same Clyde Griffiths, before ever this crime was committed by him,
plotted for weeks the plan and commission of it, and then, with malice
aforethought and in cold blood, executed it.

"And in charging these things, the people of the State of New York
expect to, and will, produce before you substantiations of every one
of them. You will be, given facts, and of these facts you, not I, are
to be the sole judge."

And here he paused once more, and shifting to a different physical
position while the eager audience crowded and leaned forward, hungry
and thirsty for every word he should utter, he now lifted one arm and
dramatically pushing back his curly hair, resumed:

"Gentlemen, it will not take me long to picture, nor will you fail to
perceive for yourselves as this case proceeds, the type of girl this
was whose life was so cruelly blotted out beneath the waters of Big
Bittern. All the twenty years of her life" (and Mason knew well that
she was twenty-three and two years older than Clyde) "no person who
ever knew her ever said one word in criticism of her character. And
no evidence to that effect, I am positive, will be introduced in this
trial. Somewhat over a year ago--on July 19--she went to the city of
Lycurgus, in order that by working with her own hands she might help
her family." (And here the sobs of her parents and sisters and brothers
were heard throughout the courtroom.)

"Gentlemen," went on Mason, and from this point carrying on the picture
of Roberta's life from the time she first left home to join Grace Marr
until, having met Clyde on Crum Lake and fallen out with her friend
and patrons, the Newtons, because of him, she accepted his dictum
that she live alone, amid strange people, concealing the suspicious
truth of this from her parents, and then finally succumbing to his
wiles--the letters she had written him from Biltz detailing every
single progressive step in this story. And from there, by the same
meticulous process, he proceeded to Clyde--his interest in the affairs
of Lycurgus society and the rich and beautiful Miss X, who because of a
purely innocent and kindly, if infatuated, indication on her part that
he might hope to aspire to her hand--had unwittingly evoked in him a
passion which had been the cause of the sudden change in his attitude
and emotions toward Roberta, resulting, as Mason insisted he would
show, in the plot that had resulted in Roberta's death.

"But who is the individual," he suddenly and most dramatically
exclaimed at this point, "against whom I charge all these things? There
he sits! Is he the son of wastrel parents--a product of the slums--one
who had been denied every opportunity for a proper or honorable
conception of the values and duties of a decent and respectable life?
Is he? On the contrary. His father is of the same strain that has given
Lycurgus one of its largest and most constructive industries--the
Griffiths Collar & Shirt Company. He was poor--yes--no doubt of that.
But not more so than Roberta Alden--and her character appears not to
have been affected by her poverty. His parents in Kansas City, Denver,
and before that Chicago and Grand Rapids, Michigan, appear to have
been unordained ministers of the proselytizing and mission-conducting
type--people who, from all I can gather, are really, sincerely
religious and right-principled in every sense. But this, their oldest
son, and the one who might have been expected to be deeply influenced
by them, early turned from their world and took to a more garish
life. He became a bellboy in a celebrated Kansas City hotel, the
Green-Davidson."

And now he proceeded to explain that Clyde had ever been a rolling
stone--one who, by reason of some quirk of temperament, perhaps,
preferred to wander here and there. Later, as he now explained, he
had been given an important position as head of a department in the
well-known factory of his uncle at Lycurgus. And then gradually he was
introduced into the circles in which his uncle and his children were
familiar. And his salary was such that he could afford to keep a room
in one of the better residences of the city, while the girl he had
slain lived in a mean room in a back street.

"And yet," he continued, "how much has been made here of the alleged
youth of this defendant?" (Here he permitted himself a scornful smile.)
"He has been called by his counsel and others in the newspapers a boy,
over and over again. He is not a boy. He is a bearded man. He has had
more social and educational advantages than any one of you in the jury
box. He has traveled. In hotels and clubs and the society with which he
was so intimately connected in Lycurgus, he has been in contact with
decent, respectable, and even able and distinguished people. Why, as a
matter of fact, at the time of his arrest two months ago, he was part
of as smart a society and summer resort group as this region boasts.
Remember that! His mind is a mature, not an immature one. It is fully
developed and balanced perfectly.

"Gentlemen, as the state will soon proceed to prove," he went on, "it
was no more than four months after his arrival in Lycurgus that this
dead girl came to work for this defendant in die department of which he
was the head. And it was not more than two months after that before he
had induced her to move from the respectable and religious home which
she had chosen in Lycurgus, to one concerning which she knew nothing
and the principal advantage of which, as he saw it, was that it offered
secrecy and seclusion and freedom from observation for that vile
purpose which already he entertained in regard to her.

"There was a rule of the Griffiths Company, as we will later show in
this trial, which explains much--and that was that no superior officer
or head of any department was permitted to have anything to do with any
girls working under him, or for the factory, in or out of the factory.
It was not conducive to either the morals or the honor of those working
for this great company, and they would not allow it. And shortly after
coming there, this man had been instructed as to that rule. But did
that deter him? Did the so recent and favorable consideration of his
uncle in any way deter him? Not in the least. Secrecy! Secrecy! From
the very beginning! Seduction! Seduction! The secret and intended and
immoral and illegal and socially unwarranted and condemned use of her
body outside the regenerative and ennobling pale of matrimony!

"That was his purpose, gentlemen! But was it generally known by any
one in Lycurgus or elsewhere that such a relationship as this existed
between him and Roberta Alden? Not a soul! _Not a soul!_, as far as I
have been able to ascertain, was ever so much as partially aware of
this relationship until after this girl was dead. Not a soul! Think of
that!

"Gentlemen of the jury," and here his voice took on an almost
reverential tone, "Roberta Alden loved this defendant with all
the strength of her soul. She loved him with that love which is
the crowning mystery of the human brain and the human heart, that
transcends in its strength and its weakness all fear of shame or
punishment from even the immortal throne above. She was a true and
human and decent and kindly girl--a passionate and loving girl. And she
loved as only a generous and trusting and self-sacrificing soul can
love. And loving so, in the end she gave to him all that any woman can
give the man she loves.

"Friends, this thing has happened millions of times in this world of
ours, and it will happen millions and millions of times in the days to
come. It is not new and it will never be old.

"But in January or February last, this girl, who is now dead in her
grave, was compelled to come to this defendant, Clyde Griffiths, and
tell him that she was about to become a mother. We shall prove to you
that then and later she begged him to go away with her and make her his
wife.

"But did he? Would he? Oh, no! For by that time a change had come over
the dreams and the affections of Clyde Griffiths. He had had time to
discover that the name of Griffiths in Lycurgus was one that would open
the doors of Lycurgus exclusive circles--that the man who was no one
in Kansas City or Chicago--was very much of a person here, and that
it would bring him in contact with girls of education and means, girls
who moved far from the sphere to which Roberta Alden belonged. Not only
that, but he had found one girl to whom, because of her beauty, wealth,
position, he had become enormously attached and beside her the little
farm and factory girl in the pathetically shabby and secret room to
which he had assigned her, looked poor indeed--good enough to betray
but not good enough to marry. And he would not." Here he paused, but
only for a moment, then went on:

"But at no point have I been able to find the least modification or
cessation of any of these social activities on his part which so
entranced him. On the contrary, from January to July fifth last, and
after--yes, even after she was finally compelled to say to him that
unless he could take her away and marry her, she would have to appeal
to the sense of justice in the community in which they moved, and after
she was cold and dead under the waters of Big Bittern--dances, lawn
fêtes, automobile parties, dinners, gay trips to Twelfth Lake and Bear
Lake, and without a thought, seemingly, that her great moral and social
need should modify his conduct in any way."

And here he paused and gazed in the direction of Belknap and Jephson,
who in turn, were not sufficiently disturbed or concerned to do more
than smile, first at him and then at each other, although Clyde,
terrorized by the force and the vehemence of it all, was chiefly
concerned to note how much of exaggeration and unfairness was in all
this.

But even as he was thinking so, Mason was continuing with: "But by
this time, gentlemen, as I have indicated, Roberta Alden had become
insistent that Griffiths make her his wife. And this he promised to
do. Yet, as all the evidence here will show, he never intended to
do anything of the kind. On the contrary, when her condition became
such that he could no longer endure her pleas or the danger which her
presence in Lycurgus unquestionably spelled for him, he induced her to
go home to her father's house, with the suggestion, apparently, that
she prepare herself by making some necessary clothes, against the day
when he would come for her and remove her to some distant city where
they would not be known, yet where as his wife she could honorably
bring their child into the world. And according to her letters to him,
as I will show, that was to have been in three weeks from the time
she departed for her home in Biltz. But did he come for her as he had
promised? No, he never did.

"Eventually, and solely because there was no other way out, he
permitted her to come to him--on July sixth last--exactly two days
before her death. But not before--but wait!----In the meantime, or
from June fifth to July sixth, he allowed her to brood in that little,
lonely farm-house on the outskirts of Biltz in Mimico County, with the
neighbors coming in to watch and help her make some clothes, which
even then she did not dare announce as her bridal trousseau. And she
suspected and feared that this defendant would fail her. For daily,
and sometimes twice daily, she wrote him, telling him of her fears and
asking him to assure her by letter or word in some form that he would
come and take her away.

"But did he even do that? Never by letter! _Never!_ Oh, no, gentlemen,
oh, no! On the contrary some telephone messages--things that could not
be so easily traced or understood. And these so few and brief that she
herself complained bitterly of his lack of interest and consideration
for her at this time. So much so that at the end of five weeks, growing
desperate, she wrote" (and here Mason picked from a collection of
letters on the table behind him a particular letter, and read): "'This
is to tell you that unless I hear from you either by telephone or
letter before noon Friday, I will come to Lycurgus and the world will
know how you have treated me.' Those are the words, gentlemen, that
this poor girl was at last compelled to write.

"But did Clyde Griffiths want the world to know how he had treated her?
Of course not! And there and then began to form in his mind a plan by
which he could escape exposure and seal Roberta Alden's lips forever.
And, gentlemen, the state will prove that he did so close her mouth."

At this point Mason produced a map of the Adirondacks which he had
had made for the purpose, and on which in red ink were traced the
movements of Clyde up to and after her death--up to the time of his
arrest at Big Bear. Also, in doing this, he paused to tell the jury of
Clyde's well-conceived plan of hiding his identity, the various false
registrations, the two hats. Here also he explained that on the train
between Fonda and Utica, as again between Utica and Grass Lake, he had
not ridden in the same car with Roberta. And then he announced:

"Don't forget, gentlemen, that although he had previously indicated
to Roberta that this was to be their wedding journey, he did not
want anybody to know that he was with his prospective bride--no, not
even after they had reached Big Bittern. For he was seeking, not to
marry but to find a wilderness in which to snuff out the life of this
girl of whom he had tired. But did that prevent him, twenty-four and
forty-eight hours before that time, from holding her in his arms and
repeating the promises he had no intention of keeping? Did it? I will
show you the registers of the two hotels in which they stayed, and
where, because of their assumed approaching marriage, they occupied a
single room together. Yet the only reason it was forty-eight instead
of twenty-four hours was that he had made a mistake in regard to the
solitude of Grass Lake. Finding it brisk with life, the center of a
summer religious colony, he decided to leave and go to Big Bittern,
which was more lonely. And so you have the astounding and bitter
spectacle, gentlemen, of a supposedly innocent and highly misunderstood
young man dragging this weary and heart-sick girl from place to place,
in order to find a lake deserted enough in which to drown her. And with
her but four months from motherhood!

"And then, having arrived at last at one lake lonely enough, putting
her in a boat and taking her out from the inn where he had again
falsely registered as Mr. Clifford Golden and wife, to her death. The
poor little thing imagined that she was going for a brief outing before
that marriage of which he talked and which was to seal and sanctify it.
To seal and sanctify it! To seal and sanctify, as closing waters seal
and sanctify, but in no other way--no other way. And with him walking,
whole and sly--as a wolf from its kill--to freedom, to marriage, to
social and material and affectionate bliss and superiority and ease,
while she slept still and nameless in her watery grave.

"But, oh, gentlemen, the ways of nature, or of God, and the Providence
that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we may! It is man who
proposes, but God--God--who disposes!

"The defendant is still wondering, I am sure, as to how I know that
she thought she was still going to be married after leaving the inn
at Big Bittern. And I have no doubt that he still has some comforting
thoughts to the effect that I cannot really and truly know it. But how
shrewd and deep must be that mind that would foresee and forestall all
the accidents and chances of life. For, as he sits there now, secure in
the faith that his counsel may be able to extract him safely from this"
(and at this Clyde sat bolt upright, his hair tingling, and his hands
concealed beneath the table, trembling slightly), "he does not know
that that girl, while in her room in the Grass Lake Inn, had written
her mother a letter, which she had not had time to mail, and which was
in the pocket of her coat left behind because of the heat of the day,
and because she imagined she was coming back, of course. And which is
here now upon this table."

At this Clyde's teeth fairly chattered. He shook as with a chill. To be
sure, she had left her coat behind! And Belknap and Jephson also sat
up, wondering what this could be. How fatally, if at all, could it mar
or make impossible the plan of defense which they had evolved? They
could only wait and see.

"But in that letter," went on Mason, "she tells why she was up
there--to be married, no less" (and at this point Jephson and Belknap,
as well as Clyde, heaved an enormous sigh of relief--it was directly in
the field of their plan) "and within a day or two," continued Mason,
thinking still that he was literally riddling Clyde with fear. "But
Griffiths, or Graham, of Albany, or Syracuse, or anywhere, knew better.
He knew he was not coming back. And he took all of his belongings with
him in that boat. And all afternoon long, from noon until evening, he
searched for a spot on that lonely lake--a spot not easily observed
from any point of the shore, as we will show. And as evening fell, he
found it. And walking south through the woods afterwards, with a new
straw hat upon his head, a clean, dry bag in his hand, he imagined
himself to be secure. Clifford Golden was no more--Carl Graham was no
more--drowned--at the bottom of Big Bittern, along with Roberta Alden.
But Clyde Griffiths was alive and free, and on his way to Twelfth Lake,
to the society he so loved.

"Gentlemen, Clyde Griffiths killed Roberta Alden before he put her in
that lake. He beat her on the head and face, and he believed no eye saw
him. But, as her last death cry rang out over the water of Big Bittern,
there was a witness, and before the prosecution has closed its case,
that witness will be here to tell you the story."

Mason had no eye witness, but he could not resist this opportunity to
throw so disrupting a thought into the opposition camp.

And decidedly, the result was all that he expected, and more. For
Clyde, who up to this time and particularly since the thunderbolt of
the letter, had been seeking to face it all with an imperturbable
look of patient innocence, now stiffened and then wilted. A witness!
And here to testify! God! Then he, whoever he was, lurking on the
lone shore of the lake, had seen the unintended blow, had heard her
cries--had seen that he had not sought to aid her! Had seen him swim to
shore and steal away--maybe had watched him in the woods as he changed
his clothes. God! His hands now gripped the sides of the chair, and his
head went back with a jerk as if from a powerful blow, for that meant
death--his sure execution. God! No hope now! His head drooped and he
looked as though he might lapse into a state of coma.

As to Belknap, Mason's revelation at first caused him to drop the
pencil with which he was making notes, then next to stare in a
puzzled and dumbfounded way, since they had no evidence wherewith to
forefend against such a smash as this--But as instantly recalling how
completely off his guard he must look, recovering. Could it be that
Clyde might have been lying to them, after all--that he had killed
her intentionally, and before this unseen witness? If so it might be
necessary for them to withdraw from such a hopeless and unpopular case,
after all.

As for Jephson, he was for the moment stunned and flattened. And
through his stern and not easily shakable brain raced such thoughts
as--was there really a witness?--has Clyde lied?--then the die was
cast, for had he not already admitted to them that he had struck
Roberta, and the witness must have seen that? And so the end of any
plea of a change of heart. Who would believe that, after such testimony
as this?

But because of the sheer contentiousness and determination of his
nature, he would not permit himself to be completely baffled by this
smashing announcement. Instead he turned, and after surveying the
flustered and yet self-chastising Belknap and Clyde, commented: "I
don't believe it. He's lying, I think, or bluffing. At any rate, we'll
wait and see. It's a long time between now and our side of the story.
Look at all those witnesses there. And we can cross-question them by
the week, if we want to--until he's out of office. Plenty of time to
do a lot of things--find out about this witness in the meantime. And
besides, there's suicide, or there's the actual thing that happened. We
can let Clyde swear to what did happen--a cataleptic trance--no courage
to do it. It's not likely anybody can see that at five hundred feet."
And he smiled grimly. At almost the same time he added, but not for
Clyde's ears: "We might be able to get him off with twenty years at the
worst, don't you think?"




                              CHAPTER XXI


And then witnesses, witnesses, witnesses--to the number of one
hundred and twenty-seven. And their testimony, particularly that of
the doctors, three guides, the woman who heard Roberta's last cry,
all repeatedly objected to by Jephson and Belknap, for upon such
weakness and demonstrable error as they could point out depended the
plausibility of Clyde's daring defense. And all of this carrying the
case well into November, and after Mason had been overwhelmingly
elected to the judgeship which he had so craved. And because of the
very vigor and strife of the trial, the general public from coast to
coast taking more and more interest. And obviously, as the days passed
and the newspaper writers at the trial saw it, Clyde was guilty. Yet
he, because of the repeated commands of Jephson, facing each witness
who assailed him with calm and even daring.

"Your name?"

"Titus Alden."

"You are the father of Roberta Alden?"

"Yes, sir."

"Now, Mr. Alden, just tell the jury how and under what circumstances it
was that your daughter Roberta happened to go to Lycurgus."

"Objected to. Irrelevant, immaterial, incompetent," snapped Belknap.

"I'll connect it up," put in Mason, looking up at the Judge, who ruled
that Titus might answer subject to a motion to strike out his testimony
if not "connected up."

"She went there to get work," replied Titus.

"And why did she go there to get work?"

Again objection, and the old man allowed to proceed after the legal
formalities had again been complied with.

"Well, the farm we have over there near Biltz hasn't ever paid so very
well, and it's been necessary for the children to help out and Bobbie
being the oldest----"

"Move to strike out!" "Strike it out."

"'Bobbie' was the pet name you gave your daughter Roberta, was it?"

"Objected to," etc., etc. "Exception."

"Yes, sir. 'Bobbie' was what we sometimes called her around there--just
Bobbie."

And Clyde listening intently and enduring without flinching the stern
and accusing stare of this brooding Priam of the farm, wondering at the
revelation of his former sweetheart's pet name. He had nicknamed her
"Bert"; she had never told him that at home she was called "Bobbie."

And amid a fusillade of objections and arguments and rulings, Alden
continuing, under the leading of Mason, to recite how she had decided
to go to Lycurgus, after receipt of a letter from Grace Marr, and stop
with Mr. and Mrs. Newton. And after securing work with the Griffiths
Company, how little the family had seen of her until June fifth last,
when she had returned to the farm for a rest and in order to make some
clothes.

"No announcement of any plans for marriage?"

"None."

But she had written a number of long letters--to whom he did not know
at the time. And she had been depressed and sick. Twice he had seen her
crying, although he said nothing, knowing that she did not want to be
noticed. There had been a few telephone calls from Lycurgus, the last
on July fourth or fifth, the day before she left, he was quite sure.

"And what did she have with her when she left?"

"Her bag and her little trunk."

"And would you recognize the bag that she carried, if you saw it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this the bag?" (A deputy assistant district attorney carrying
forward a bag and placing it on a small stand.)

And Alden, after looking at it and wiping his eyes with the back of his
hand, announcing: "Yes, sir."

And then most dramatically, as Mason intended in connection with every
point in this trial, a deputy assistant carrying in a small trunk, and
Titus Alden and his wife and daughters and sons all crying at the sight
of it. And after being identified by him as Roberta's, the bag and
then the trunk were opened in turn. And the dresses made by Roberta,
some underclothing, shoes, hats, the toilet set given her by Clyde,
pictures of her mother and father and sister and brothers, an old
family cook-book, some spoons and forks and knives and salt and pepper
sets--all given her by her grandmother and treasured by her for her
married life--held up and identified in turn.

All this over Belknap's objection, and on Mason's promise to "connect
it up," which, however, he was unable to do, and the evidence was
accordingly ordered "struck out." But its pathetic significance by
that time deeply impressed on the minds and hearts of the jurymen.
And Belknap's criticism of Mason's tactics merely resulting in that
gentleman bellowing, in an infuriated manner: "Who's conducting this
prosecution, anyhow?" To which Belknap replied: "The Republican
candidate for county judge in this county, I believe!"--thus evoking
a wave of laughter which caused Mason to fairly shout: "Your Honor, I
protest! This is an unethical and illegal attempt to inject into this
case a political issue which has nothing to do with it. It is slyly
and maliciously intended to convey to this jury that because I am the
Republican nominee for judge of the county, it is impossible for me to
properly and fairly conduct the prosecution of this case. And I now
demand an apology, and will have it before I proceed one step further
in this case."

Whereupon Justice Oberwaltzer, feeling that a very serious breach of
court etiquette had occurred, proceeded to summon Belknap and Mason
before him, and after listening to placid and polite interpretations
of what was meant, and what was not meant, finally ordered, on pain of
contempt, that neither of them again refer to the political situation
in any way.

Nevertheless, Belknap and Jephson congratulating themselves that in
this fashion their mood in regard to Mason's candidacy and his use of
this case to further it had effectively gotten before the jury and the
court.

But more and more witnesses!

Grace Marr now taking the stand, and in a glib and voluble outpouring
describing how and where she had first met Roberta--how pure and clean
and religious a girl she was, but, how after meeting Clyde on Crum Lake
a great change had come over her. She was more secretive and evasive
and given to furnishing all sorts of false excuses for new and strange
adventures--as, for instance, going out nights and staying late, and
claiming to be places over Saturday and Sunday where she wasn't--until
finally, because of criticism which she, Grace Marr, had ventured to
make, she had suddenly left, without giving any address. But there was
a man, and that man was Clyde Griffiths. For having followed Roberta to
her room one evening in September or October of the year before, she
had observed her and Clyde in the distance, near the Gilpin home. They
were standing under some trees and he had his arm around her.

And thereafter Belknap, at Jephson's suggestion, taking her and by the
slyest type of questioning, trying to discover whether, before coming
to Lycurgus, Roberta was as religious and conventional as Miss Marr
would have it. But Miss Marr, faded and irritable, insisting that up to
the day of her meeting with Clyde on Crum Lake, Roberta had been the
soul of truth and purity, in so far as she knew.

And next the Newtons swearing to much the same thing.

And then the Gilpins, wife and husband and daughters, each swearing to
what she or he alone saw or heard. Mrs. Gilpin as to the approximate
day of Roberta's moving into her home with one small trunk and bag--the
identical trunk and bag identified by Titus. And thereafter seeming
to live very much alone until finally she, feeling sorry for her, had
suggested one type of contact and another, but Roberta invariably
refusing. But later, along in late November, although she had never
had the heart to say anything about it to her because of her sweetness
and general sobriety, she and her two daughters had become aware of
the fact that occasionally, after eleven o'clock, it had seemed as
though Roberta must be entertaining some one in her room, but just
whom she could not say. And again at this point, on cross-examination,
Belknap trying to extract any admissions or impressions which would
tend to make it look as though Roberta was a little less reserved
and puritanical than all the witnesses had thus far painted her, but
failing. Mrs. Gilpin, as well as her husband, was plainly fond of her
and only under pressure from Mason and later Belknap testified to
Clyde's late visits.

And then the elder daughter, Stella, testifying that during the latter
part of October or the first of November, shortly after Roberta had
taken the room, she had passed her and a man, whom she was now able to
identify as Clyde, standing less than a hundred feet from the house,
and noticing that they were evidently quarreling she had paused to
listen. She was not able to distinguish every word of the conversation,
but upon leading questions from Mason was able to recall that Roberta
had protested that she could not let him come into her room--"it would
not look right." And he had finally turned upon his heel, leaving
Roberta standing with outstretched arms as if imploring him to return.

And throughout all this Clyde staring in amazement, for he had in those
days--in fact throughout his entire contact with Roberta--imagined
himself unobserved. And decidedly this confirmed much of what Mason had
charged in his opening address--that he had willfully and with full
knowledge of the nature of the offense, persuaded Roberta to do what
plainly she had not wanted to do--a form of testimony that was likely
to prejudice the judge as well as the jury and all these conventional
people of this rural county. And Belknap, realizing this, trying to
confuse this Stella in her identification of Clyde. But only succeeding
in eliciting information that some time in November or the early part
of December, shortly after the above incident, she had seen Clyde
arrive, a box of some kind under his arm, and knock at Roberta's door
and enter, and was then positive that he was the same young man she had
seen that moonlight night quarreling with Roberta.

And next, Whiggam, and after him Liggett, testifying as to the dates
of arrival of Clyde at the factory, as well as Roberta, and as to the
rule regarding department heads and female help, and, in so far as they
could see, the impeccable surface conduct of both Clyde and Roberta,
neither seeming to look at the other or at any one else for that
matter. (That was Liggett testifying.)

And after them again, others. Mrs. Peyton to testify as to the
character of his room and his social activities in so far as she was
able to observe them. Mrs. Alden to testify that at Christmas the
year before Roberta had confessed to her that her superior at the
factory--Clyde Griffiths, the nephew of the owner--was paying attention
to her, but that it had to be kept secret for the time being. Frank
Harriet, Harley Baggott, Tracy Trumbull and Eddie Sells to testify
that during December last Clyde had been invited here and there and
had attended various social gatherings in Lycurgus. John Lambert, a
druggist of Schenectady, testifying that some time in January he had
been applied to by a youth, whom he now identified as the defendant,
for some medicine which would bring about a miscarriage. Orrin Short to
testify that in late January Clyde had asked him if he knew of a doctor
who could aid a young married woman--according to Clyde's story, the
wife of an employe of Griffiths & Company--who was too poor to afford
a child, and whose husband, according to Clyde, had asked him for this
information. And next Dr. Glenn, testifying to Roberta's visit, having
previously recalled her from pictures published in the papers, but
adding that professionally he had been unwilling to do anything for her.

And then C. B. Wilcox, a farmer neighbor of the Aldens, testifying
to having been in the washroom back of the kitchen on or about June
twenty-ninth or thirtieth, on which occasion Roberta having been called
over the long distance telephone from Lycurgus by a man who gave his
name as Baker, he had heard her say to him: "But, Clyde, I can't wait
that long. You know I can't. And I won't." And her voice had sounded
excited and distressed. Mr. Wilcox was positive as to the name Clyde.

And Ethel Wilcox, a daughter of this same C. B.--short and fat and with
a lisp--who swore that on three preceding occasions, having received
long distance requests for Roberta, she had proceeded to get her. And
each time the call was from Lycurgus from a man named Baker. Also, on
one occasion, she had heard her refer to the caller as Clyde. And once
she had heard her say that "under no circumstances would she wait that
long," although what she meant by that she did not know.

And next Roger Beane, a rural free delivery letter-carrier, who
testified that between June seventh or eighth to July fourth or fifth,
he had received no less than fifteen letters from Roberta herself or
the mail box at the crossroads of the Alden farm, and that he was
positive that most of the letters were addressed to Clyde Griffiths,
care of General Delivery, Lycurgus.

And next Amos Showalter, general delivery clerk at Lycurgus, who swore
that to the best of his recollection, from or between June seventh
or eighth and July fourth or fifth, Clyde, whom he knew by name, had
inquired for and received not less than fifteen or sixteen letters.

And after him, R. T. Biggen, an oil station manager of Lycurgus, who
swore that on the morning of July sixth, at about eight o'clock, having
gone to Fielding Avenue, which was on the extreme west of the city,
leading on the northern end to a "stop" on the Lycurgus and Fonda
electric line, he had seen Clyde, dressed in a gray suit and wearing
a straw hat and carrying a brown suit-case, to one side of which was
strapped a yellow camera tripod and something else--an umbrella it
might have been. And knowing in which direction Clyde lived, he had
wondered at his walking, when at Central Avenue, not so far from his
home, he could have boarded the Fonda-Lycurgus car. And Belknap in his
cross-examination inquiring of this witness how, being one hundred and
seventy-five feet distant, he could swear that it was a tripod that he
saw, and Biggens insisting that it was--it was bright yellow wood and
had brass clops and three legs.

And then after him, John W. Troescher, station master at Fonda, who
testified that on the morning of July sixth last (he recalled it
clearly because of certain other things which he listed), he had sold
Roberta Alden a ticket to Utica. He recalled Miss Alden because of
having noted her several times during the preceding winter. She looked
quite tired, almost sick, and carried a brown bag, something like
the brown bag there and then exhibited to him. Also he recalled the
defendant, who also carried a bag. He did not see him notice or talk to
the girl.

And next Quincy B. Dale, conductor of the particular train that ran
from Fonda to Utica. He had noticed, and now recalled, Clyde in one
car toward the rear. He also noticed, and from photographs later
published, had recalled Roberta. She gave him a friendly smile and he
had said that such a bag as she was carrying seemed rather heavy for
her and that he would have one of the brakemen carry it out for her at
Utica, for which she thanked him. He had seen her descend at Utica and
disappear into the depot. He had not noticed Clyde there.

And then the identification of Roberta's trunk as having been left in
the baggage room at the station at Utica for a number of days. And
after that the guest page of the Renfrew House, of Utica, for July
sixth last, identified by Jerry K. Kernocian, general manager of said
hotel, which showed an entry--"Clifford Golden and wife." And the
same then and there compared by handwriting experts with two other
registration pages from the Grass Lake and Big Bittern Inns and sworn
to as being identically the same handwriting. And these compared with
the card in Roberta's suit-case, and all received in evidence and
carefully examined by each juror in turn and by Belknap and Jephson,
who, however, had seen all but the card before. And once more a protest
on the part of Belknap as to the unwarranted and illegal and shameful
withholding of evidence on the part of the district attorney. And a
long and bitter wrangle as to that, serving, in fact, to bring to a
close the tenth day of the trial.




                             CHAPTER XXII


And then, on the eleventh day, Frank W. Schaefer, clerk of the Renfrew
House in Utica, recalling the actual arrival of Clyde and Roberta
and their actions; also Clyde's registering for both as Mr. and Mrs.
Clifford Golden, of Syracuse. And then Wallace Vanderhoff, one of the
clerks of the Star Haberdashery in Utica, with a story of Clyde's
actions and general appearance at the time of his buying a straw
hat. And then the conductor of the train running between Utica and
Grass Lake. And the proprietor of the Grass Lake House. And Blanche
Pettingill, a waitress, who swore that at dinner she had overheard
Clyde arguing with Roberta as to the impossibility of getting a
marriage license there--that it would be better to wait until they
reached some other place the next day--a bit of particularly damaging
testimony, since it pre-dated by a day the proposed confession which
Clyde was supposed to have made to Roberta, but which Jephson and
Belknap afterward agreed between themselves might easily have had some
preliminary phases. And after her the conductor of the train that
carried them to Gun Lodge. And after him the guide and the driver of
the bus, with his story of Clyde's queer talk about many people being
over there and leaving Roberta's bag while he took his own, and saying
they would be back.

And then, the proprietor of the Inn at Big Bittern; the boatkeeper;
the three men in the woods--their testimony very damaging to Clyde's
case, since they pictured his terror on encountering them. And then
the story of the finding of the boat and Roberta's body, and the
eventual arrival of Heit and his finding of the letter in Roberta's
coat. A score of witnesses testifying as to all this. And next the
boat captain, the farm girl, the Cranston chauffeur, the arrival of
Clyde at the Cranstons', and at last (every step accounted for and
sworn to) his arrival at Bear Lake, the pursuit and his capture--to say
nothing of the various phases of his arrest--what he said--this being
most damaging indeed, since it painted Clyde as false, evasive, and
terrified.

But unquestionably, the severest and most damaging testimony related
to the camera and the tripod--the circumstances surrounding the finding
of them--and on the weight of this Mason was counting for a conviction.
His one aim first was to convict Clyde of lying as to his possession
of either a tripod or a camera. And in order to do that he first
introduced Earl Newcomb, who swore that on a certain day, when he,
Mason and Heit and all the others connected with the case were taking
Clyde over the area in which the crime had been committed, he and a
certain native, one Bill Swartz, who was afterwards put on the stand,
while poking about under some fallen logs and bushes, had come across
the tripod, hidden under a log. Also (under the leadership of Mason,
although over the objections of both Belknap and Jephson, which were
invariably overruled), he proceeded to add that Clyde, on being asked
whether he had a camera or this tripod, had denied any knowledge of it,
on hearing which Belknap and Jephson actually shouted their disapproval.

Immediately following, though eventually ordered stricken from the
records by Justice Oberwaltzer, there was introduced a paper signed
by Heit, Burleigh, Slack, Kraut, Swenk, Sissell, Bill Swartz, Rufus
Forster, county surveyor, and Newcomb, which set forth that Clyde, on
being shown the tripod and asked whether he had one, "vehemently and
repeatedly denied that he had." But in order to drive the import of
this home, Mason immediately adding: "Very well, Your Honor, but I have
other witnesses who will swear to everything that is in that paper and
more," and at once calling "Joseph Frazer! Joseph Frazer!" and then
placing on the stand a dealer in sporting goods, cameras, etc., who
proceeded to swear that some time between May fifteenth and June first,
the defendant, Clyde Griffiths, whom he knew by sight and name, had
applied to him for a camera of a certain size, with tripod attached,
and that the defendant had finally selected a Sank, 3-1/2 by 5-1/2, for
which he had made arrangements to pay in installments. And after due
examination and consulting certain stock numbers with which the camera
and the tripod and his own book were marked, Mr. Frazer identifying
first the camera now shown him, and immediately after that the yellow
tripod as the one he had sold Clyde.

And Clyde sitting up aghast. Then they had found the camera, as well as
the tripod, after all. And after he had protested so that he had had no
camera with him. What would that jury and the judge and this audience
think of his lying about that? Would they be likely to believe his
story of a change of heart after this proof that he had lied about a
meaningless camera? Better to have confessed in the first place.

But even as he was so thinking Mason calling Simeon Dodge, a young
woodsman and driver, who testified that on Saturday, the sixteenth
of July, accompanied by John Pole, who had lifted Roberta's body
out of the water, he had at the request of the district attorney,
repeatedly dived into the exact spot where her body was found, and
finally succeeded in bringing up a camera. And then the camera itself
identified by Dodge.

Immediately after this all the testimony in regard to the hitherto as
yet unmentioned films found in the camera at the time of its recovery,
since developed, and now received in evidence, four views which showed
a person looking more like Roberta than any one else, together with
two, which clearly enough represented Clyde. Belknap was not able to
refute or exclude them.

Then Floyd Thurston, one of the guests at the Cranston lodge at Sharon
on June eighteenth--the occasion of Clyde's first visit there--placed
on the stand to testify that on that occasion Clyde had made a number
of pictures with a camera about the size and description of the one
shown him, but failing to identify it as the particular one, his
testimony being stricken out.

After him again, Edna Patterson, a chambermaid in the Grass Lake
Inn, who, as she swore, on entering the room which Clyde and Roberta
occupied on the night of July seventh, had seen Clyde with a camera
in his hand, which was of the size and color, as far as she could
recall, of the one then and there before her. She had also at the
same time seen a tripod. And Clyde, in his curious and meditative and
half-hypnotized state, recalling well enough the entrance of this girl
into that room and marveling and suffering because of the unbreakable
chain of facts that could thus be built up by witnesses from such
varying and unconnected and unexpected places, and so long after, too.

After her, but on different days, and with Belknap and Jephson
contending every inch of the way as to the admissibility of all this,
the testimony of the five doctors whom Mason had called in at the
time Roberta's body was first brought to Bridgeburg, and who in turn
swore that the wounds, both on the face and head, were sufficient,
considering Roberta's physical condition, to stun her. And because
of the condition of the dead girl's lungs, which had been tested by
attempting to float them in water, averring that at the time her body
had first entered the water, she must have been still alive, although
not necessarily conscious. But as to the nature of the instrument used
to make these wounds, they would not venture to guess, other than to
say it must have been blunt. And no grilling on the part of either
Belknap or Jephson could bring them to admit that the blows could have
been of such a light character as not to stun or render unconscious.
The chief injury appeared to be on the top of the skull, deep enough
to have caused a blood clot, photographs of all of which were put in
evidence.

At this psychological point, when both audience and jury were most
painfully and effectively stirred, a number of photographs of Roberta's
face, made at the time that Heit, the doctors and the Lutz Brothers
had her in charge, were introduced. Then the dimensions of the bruises
on the right side of her face were shown to correspond exactly in size
with two sides of the camera. Immediately after that, Burton Burleigh
placed on the stand to swear how he had discovered the two strands of
hair which corresponded with the hair on Roberta's head--or so Mason
tried to show--caught between the lens and the lid. And then, after
hours and hours, Belknap, infuriated and yet made nervous by this type
of evidence and seeking to riddle it with sarcasm, finally pulling a
light hair out of his head and then asking the jurors and Burleigh if
they could venture to tell whether one single hair from any one's head
could be an indication of the general color of a person's hair, and if
not, whether they were ready to believe that this particular hair was
from Roberta's head or not.

Mason then calling a Mrs. Rutger Donahue, who proceeded, in the calmest
and most placid fashion, to tell how on the evening of July eighth
last, between five-thirty and six, she and her husband immediately
after setting up a tent above Moon Cove, had started out to row and
fish, when being about a half-mile off shore and perhaps a quarter of
a mile above the woods or northern fringe of land which enclosed Moon
Cove, she had heard a cry.

"Between half past five and six in the afternoon, you say?"

"Yes, sir."

"And on what date again?"

"July eighth."

"And where were you exactly at that time?"

"We were----"

"Not 'we.' Where were you personally?"

"I was crossing what I have since learned was South Bay in a row boat
with my husband."

"Yes. Now tell what happened next."

"When we reached the middle of the bay I heard a cry."

"What was it like?"

"It was penetrating--like the cry of some one in pain--or in danger. It
was sharp--a haunting cry."

Here a motion to "strike out," with the result that the last phrase was
so ordered stricken out.

"Where did it come from?"

"From a distance. From within or beyond the woods."

"Did you know at the time that there was another bay or cove
there--below that strip of woods?"

"No, sir."

"Well, what did you think then--that it might have come from within the
woods below where you were?"

(Objected to--and objection sustained.)

"And now tell us, was it a man's or a woman's cry? What kind of a cry
was it?"

"It was a woman's cry, and something like 'Oh, oh!' or 'Oh, my!'--very
piercing and clear, but distant, of course. A double scream such as one
might make when in pain."

"You are sure you could not be mistaken as to the kind of a cry it
was--male or female."

"No, sir. I am positive. It was a woman's. It was pitched too high
for a man's voice or a boy's. It could not have been anything but a
woman's."

"I see. And now tell us, Mrs. Donahue--you see this dot on the map
showing where the body of Roberta Alden was found?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you see this other dot, over those trees, showing approximately
where your boat was?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you think that voice came from where this dot in Moon Cove is?"

(Objected to. Sustained.)

"And was that cry repeated?"

"No, sir. I waited, and I called my husband's attention to it, too, and
we waited, but didn't hear it again."

Then Belknap, eager to prove that it might have been a terrified and
yet not a pained or injured cry, taking her and going all over the
ground again, and finding that neither she nor her husband, who was
also put on the stand, could be shaken in any way. Neither, they
insisted, could the deep and sad effect of this woman's voice be
eradicated from their minds. It had haunted both, and once in their
camp again they had talked about it. Because it was dusk he did not
wish to go seeking after the spot from which it came; because she felt
that some woman or girl might have been slain in those woods, she did
not want to stay any longer, and the next morning early they had moved
on to another lake.

Thomas Barrett, another Adirondack guide, connected with a camp at
Dam's Lake, swore that at the time referred to by Mrs. Donahue, he was
walking along the shore toward Big Bittern Inn and had seen not only a
man and woman off shore in about the position described, but farther
back, toward the south shore of this bay, had noted the tent of these
campers. Also that from no point outside Moon Cove, unless near the
entrance, could one observe any boat within the cove. The entrance was
narrow and any view from the lake proper completely blocked. And there
were other witnesses to prove this.

At this psychological moment, as the afternoon sun was already
beginning to wane in the tall, narrow court room, and as carefully
planned by him beforehand, Mason's reading all of Roberta's letters,
one by one, in a most simple and nondeclamatory fashion, yet with all
the sympathy and emotion which their first perusal had stirred in him.
They had made him cry.

He began with letter number one, dated June eighth, only three days
after her departure from Lycurgus, and on through them all down
to letters fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen, in which, in
piecemeal or by important references here and there, she related her
whole contact with Clyde down to his plan to come for her in three
weeks, then in a month, then on July eighth or ninth, and then the
sudden threat from her which precipitated his sudden decision to meet
her at Fonda. And as Mason read them, all most movingly, the moist eyes
and the handkerchiefs and the coughs in the audience and among the
jurors attested their import:

    "You said I was not to worry or think so much about how I feel,
    and have a good time. That's all right for you to say, when you're
    in Lycurgus and surrounded by your friends and invited everywhere.
    It's hard for me to talk over there at Wilcox's with somebody
    always in earshot and with you constantly reminding me that I
    mustn't say this or that. But I had so much to ask and no chance
    there. And all that you would say was that everything was all
    right. But you didn't say positively that you were coming on the
    27th, that because of something I couldn't quite make out--there
    was so much buzzing on the wire--you might not be able to start
    until later. But that can't be, Clyde. My parents are leaving for
    Hamilton where my uncle lives on the third. And Tom and Emily are
    going to my sister's on the same day. But I can't and won't go
    there again. I can't stay here all alone. So you must, you really
    must come, as you agreed. I can't wait any longer than that, Clyde,
    in the condition that I'm in, and so you just must come and take me
    away. Oh, please, please, I beg of you, not to torture me with any
    more delays now."

And again:

    "Clyde, I came home because I thought I could trust you. You told
    me so solemnly before I left that if I would, you would come and
    get me in three weeks at the most--that it would not take you
    longer than that to get ready, have enough money for the time
    we would be together, or until you could get something to do
    somewhere else. But yesterday, although the third of July will be
    nearly a month since I left, you were not at all sure at first
    that you could come by then, and when as I told you my parents are
    surely leaving for Hamilton to be gone for ten days. Of course,
    afterwards, you said you would come, but you said it as though you
    were just trying to quiet me. It has been troubling me awfully ever
    since.

    "For I tell you, Clyde, I am sick, very. I feel faint nearly all
    the time. And besides, I am so worried as to what I shall do if you
    don't come that I am nearly out of my mind."

        *       *       *       *       *

    "Clyde, I know that you don't care for me any more like you did and
    that you are wishing things could be different. And yet, what am
    I to do? I know you'll say that it has all been as much my fault
    as yours. And the world, if it knew, might think so, too. But how
    often did I beg you not to make me do what I did not want to do,
    and which I was afraid even then I would regret, although I loved
    you too much to let you go, if you still insisted on having your
    way."

        *       *       *       *       *

    "Clyde, if I could only die. That would solve all this. And I have
    prayed and prayed that I would lately, yes I have. For life does
    not mean as much to me now as when I first met you and you loved
    me. Oh, those happy days! If only things were different. If only I
    were out of your way. It would all be so much better for me and for
    all of us. But I can't now, Clyde, without a penny and no way to
    save the name of our child, except this. Yet if it weren't for the
    terrible pain and disgrace it would bring to my mother and father
    and all my family, I would be willing to end it all in another way.
    I truly would."

And again:

    "Oh, Clyde, Clyde, life is so different to-day to what it was last
    year. Think--then we were going to Crum and those other lakes over
    near Fonda and Gloversville and Little Falls, but now--now. Only
    just now some boy and girl friends of Tom's and Emily's came by to
    get them to go after strawberries, and when I saw them go and knew
    I couldn't, and that I couldn't be like that any more ever, I cried
    and cried, ever so long."

And finally:

    "I have been bidding good-by to some places to-day. There are so
    many nooks, dear, and all of them so dear to me. I have lived here
    all my life, you know. First, there was the springhouse with its
    great masses of green moss, and in passing it I said good-by to it,
    for I won't be coming to it soon again--maybe never. And then the
    old apple tree where we had our playhouse years ago--Emily and Tom
    and Gifford and I. Then the 'Believe,' a cute little house in the
    orchard where we sometimes played.

    "Oh, Clyde, you can't realize what all this means to me, I feel
    as though I shall never see my home again after I leave here this
    time. And mamma, poor dear mamma, how I do love her and how sorry I
    am to have deceived her so. She is never cross and she always helps
    me so much. Sometimes I think if I could tell her, but I can't.
    She has had trouble enough, and I couldn't break her heart like
    that. No, if I go away and come back some time, either married or
    dead--it doesn't make so much difference now--she will never know,
    and I will not have caused her any pain, and that means so much
    more than life itself to me. So good-by, Clyde, until I do meet
    you, as you telephoned. And forgive me all the trouble that I have
    caused you.

                                                       "Your sorrowful,
                                                             "ROBERTA."

And at points in the reading, Mason himself crying, and at their
conclusion turning, weary and yet triumphant, a most complete and
indestructible case, as he saw it, having been presented, and
exclaiming: "The People rest." And at that moment, Mrs. Alden, in court
with her husband and Emily, and overwrought, not only by the long
strain of the trial but this particular evidence, uttering a whimpering
yet clear cry and then falling forward in a faint. And Clyde, in his
own overwrought condition, hearing her cry and seeing her fall, jumping
up--the restraining hand of Jephson instantly upon him, while bailiffs
and others assisted her and Titus who was beside her from the court
room. And the audience almost, if not quite, as moved and incensed
against Clyde by that development as though, then and there, he had
committed some additional crime.

But then, that excitement having passed and it being quite dark, and
the hands of the court clock pointing to five, and all the court weary,
Justice Oberwaltzer signifying his intention of adjourning for the
night.

And at once all the newspaper men and feature writers and artists
rising and whispering to each other that on the morrow the defense
would start, and wondering as to who and where the witnesses were, also
whether Clyde would be permitted to go on the stand in his own defense
in the face of this amazing mass of evidence against him, or whether
his lawyers would content themselves with some specious argument as to
mental and moral weakness which might end in prison for life--not less.

And Clyde, hissed and cursed as he left the court, wondering if on
the morrow, and as they had planned this long time since, he would
have the courage to rise and go on the stand--wondering if there was
not some way, in case no one was looking (he was not handcuffed as he
went to and from the jail) maybe to-morrow night when all were rising,
the crowds moving and these deputies coming toward him--if--well,
if he could only run, or walk easily and quietly and yet quickly
and seemingly unintentionally, to that stair and then down and
out--to--well--to wherever it went--that small side door to the main
stairs which before this he had seen from the jail! If he could only
get to some woods somewhere, and then walk and walk, or run and run,
maybe, without stopping, and without eating, for days maybe, until,
well, until he had gotten away--anywhere. It was a chance, of course.
He might be shot, or tracked with dogs and men, but still it was a
chance, wasn't it?

For this way he had no chance at all. No one anywhere, after all this,
was going to believe him not guilty. And he did not want to die that
way. No, no, not that way!

And so another miserable, black and weary night. And then another
miserable gray and wintry morning.




                             CHAPTER XXIII


By eight o'clock the next morning the great city papers were on the
stands with the sprawling headlines, which informed every one in no
uncertain terms:

             "PROSECUTION IN GRIFFITHS' CASE CLOSES WITH
                   IMPRESSIVE DELUGE OF TESTIMONY."

               "MOTIVE AS WELL AS METHOD HAMMERED HOME."

             "DESTRUCTIVE MARKS ON FACE AND HEAD SHOWN TO
                 CORRESPOND WITH ONE SIDE OF CAMERA."

                "MOTHER OF DEAD GIRL FAINTS AT CLOSE OF
                   DRAMATIC READING OF HER LETTERS."

And the architectonic way in which Mason had built his case, together
with his striking and dramatic presentation of it, was sufficient to
stir in Belknap and Jephson, as well as Clyde, the momentary conviction
that they had been completely routed--that by no conceivable device
could they possibly convince this jury now that Clyde was not a
quadruple-dyed villain.

And all congratulating Mason on the masterly way he had presented his
case. And Clyde, greatly reduced and saddened by the realization that
his mother would be reading all that had transpired the day before. He
must ask Jephson to please wire her so that she would not believe it.
And Frank and Julia and Esta. And no doubt Sondra reading all this,
too, to-day, yet through all these days, all these black nights, not
one word! A reference now and then in the papers to a Miss X but at no
time a single correct picture of her. That was what a family with money
could do for you. And on this very day his defense would begin and he
would have to go forward as the only witness of any import. Yet asking
himself, _how could he?_ The crowd. Its temper. The nervous strain of
its unbelief and hatred by now. And after Belknap was through with him,
then Mason. It was all right for Belknap and Jephson. They were in no
danger of being tortured, as he was certain of being tortured.

Yet in the face of all this, and after an hour spent with Jephson and
Belknap in his cell, finding himself back in the courtroom, under the
persistent gaze of this nondescript jury and the tensely interested
audience. And now Belknap rising before the jury and after solemnly
contemplating each one of them, beginning:

"Gentlemen--somewhat over three weeks ago you were told by the district
attorney that because of the evidence he was about to present he would
insist that you jurors must find the prisoner at the bar guilty of
the crime of which he stands indicted. It has been a long and tedious
procedure since then. The foolish and inexperienced, yet in every case
innocent and unintentional, acts of a boy of fifteen or sixteen have
been gone into before you gentlemen as though they were the deeds of a
hardened criminal, and plainly with the intention of prejudicing you
against this defendant, who, with the exception of one misinterpreted
accident in Kansas City--the most brutally and savagely misinterpreted
accident it has ever been my professional misfortune to encounter--can
be said to have lived as clean and energetic and blameless and innocent
a life as any boy of his years anywhere. You have heard him called
a man--a bearded man--a criminal and a crime-soaked product of the
darkest vomiting of Hell. And yet he is but twenty-one. And there he
sits. And I venture to say that if by some magic of the spoken word I
could at this moment strip from your eye the substance of all the cruel
thoughts and emotions which have been attributed to him by a clamorous
and mistaken and I might say (if I had not been warned not to do so),
politically biased prosecution, you could no more see him in the light
that you do than you could rise out of that box and fly through those
windows.

"Gentlemen of the jury, I have no doubt that you, as well as the
district attorney and even the audience, have wondered how under the
downpour of such linked and at times almost venomous testimony, I or my
colleague or this defendant could have remained as calm and collected
as we have." (And here he waved with grave ceremoniousness in the
direction of his partner, who was still awaiting his own hour.) "Yet,
as you have seen, we have not only maintained but enjoyed the serenity
of those who not only feel but _know_ that they have the right and just
end of any legal contest. You recall, of course, the words of the Avon
bard--'Thrice armed is he who hath his quarrel just.'

"In fact, we know, as the prosecution in this case unfortunately does
not, the peculiarly strange and unexpected circumstances by which this
dramatic and most unfortunate death came about. And before we are
through you shall see for yourselves. In the meantime, let me tell you,
gentlemen, that since this case opened I have believed that even apart
from the light we propose to throw on this disheartening tragedy, you
gentlemen are not at all sure that a brutal or bestial crime can be
laid upon the shoulders of this defendant. You cannot be! For after
all, love is love, and the ways of passion and the destroying emotion
of love in either sex are not those of the ordinary criminal. Only
remember, we were once all boys. And those of you who are grown women
were girls, and know well--oh, how very well--the fevers and aches
of youth that have nothing to do with a later practical life. 'Judge
not, lest ye be judged and with whatsoever measure ye mete, it will be
measured unto ye again.'

"We admit the existence and charm and potent love spell of the
mysterious Miss X and her letters, which we have not been able to
introduce here, and their effect on this defendant. We admit his love
for this Miss X, and we propose to show by witnesses of our own, as
well as by analyzing some of the testimony that has been offered here,
that perhaps the sly and lecherous overtures with which this defendant
is supposed to have lured the lovely soul now so sadly and yet so
purely accidentally blotted out, as we shall show, from the straight
and narrow path of morality, were perhaps no more sly nor lecherous
than the proceedings of any youth who finds the girl of his choice
surrounded by those who see life only in the terms of the strictest and
narrowest moral régime. And, gentlemen, as your own county district
attorney has told you, Roberta Alden loved Clyde Griffiths. At the very
opening of this relationship which has since proved to be a tragedy,
this dead girl was deeply and irrevocably in love with him, just as at
the time he imagined that he was in love with her. And people who are
deeply and earnestly in love with each other are not much concerned
with the opinions of others in regard to themselves. They are in
love--and that is sufficient!

"But, gentlemen, I am not going to dwell on that phase of the question
so much as on this explanation which we are about to offer. Why did
Clyde Griffiths go to Fonda, or to Utica, or to Grass Lake, or to Big
Bittern, at all? Do you think we have any reason for or any desire
to deny or discolor in any way the fact of his having done so, or
with Roberta Alden either? Or why, after the suddenness and seeming
strangeness and mystery of her death, he should have chosen to walk
away as he did? If you seriously think so for one fraction of a moment,
you are the most hopelessly deluded and mistaken dozen jurymen it
has been our privilege to argue before in all our twenty-seven years'
contact with juries.

"Gentlemen, I have said to you that Clyde Griffiths is not guilty, and
he is not. You may think, perhaps, that we ourselves must be believing
in his guilt. But you are wrong. The peculiarity, the strangeness
of life, is such that oftentimes a man may be accused of something
that he did not do and yet every circumstance surrounding him at the
time seem to indicate that he did do it. There have been many very
pathetic and very terrible instances of miscarriages of justice through
circumstantial evidence alone. Be sure! Oh, be very sure that no such
mistaken judgment based on any local or religious or moral theory of
conduct or bias, because of presumed irrefutable evidence, is permitted
to prejudice you, so that without meaning to, and with the best and
highest-minded intentions, you yourselves see a crime, or the intention
to commit a crime, when no such crime or any such intention ever truly
or legally existed or lodged in the mind or acts of this defendant. Oh,
be sure! Be very, very sure!"

And here he paused to rest and seemed to give himself over to deep and
even melancholy thought, while Clyde, heartened by this shrewd and
defiant beginning was inclined to take more courage. But now Belknap
was talking again, and he must listen--not lose a word of all this that
was so heartening.

"When Roberta Alden's body was taken out of the water at Big Bittern,
gentlemen, it was examined by a physician. He declared at the time
that the girl had been drowned. He will be here and testify and the
defendant shall have the benefit of that testimony, and you must render
it to him.

"You were told by the district attorney that Roberta Alden and Clyde
Griffiths were engaged to be married and that she left her home at
Biltz and went forth with him on July sixth last on her wedding
journey. Now, gentlemen, it is so easy to slightly distort a certain
set of circumstances. 'Were engaged to be married' was how the district
attorney emphasized the incidents leading up to the departure on
July sixth. As a matter of fact, not one iota of any direct evidence
exists which shows that Clyde Griffiths was ever formally engaged to
Roberta Alden, or that, except for some passages in her letters, he
agreed to marry her. And those passages, gentlemen, plainly indicate
that it was only under the stress of moral and material worry, due to
her condition--for which he was responsible, of course, but which,
nevertheless, was with the consent of both--a boy of twenty-one and a
girl of twenty-three--that he agreed to marry her. Is that, I ask you,
an open and proper engagement--the kind of an engagement you think of
when you think of one at all? Mind you, I am not seeking to flout or
belittle or reflect in any way on this poor, dead girl. I am simply
stating, as a matter of fact and of law, that this boy was not formally
engaged to this dead girl. He had not given her his word beforehand
that he would marry her.... Never! There is no proof. You must give
him the benefit of that. And only because of her condition, for which
we admit he was responsible, he came forward with an agreement to
marry her, in case ... in case" (and here he paused and rested on
the phrase), "she was not willing to release him. And since she was
not willing to release him, as her various letters read here show,
that agreement, on pain of a public exposure in Lycurgus, becomes,
in the eyes and words of the district attorney, an engagement, and
not only that but a sacred engagement which no one but a scoundrel
and a thief and a murderer would attempt to sever! But, gentlemen,
many engagements, more open and sacred in the eyes of the law and of
religion, have been broken. Thousands of men and thousands of women
have seen their hearts change, their vows and faith and trust flouted,
and have even carried their wounds into the secret places of their
souls, or gone forth, and gladly, to death at their own hands because
of them. As the district attorney said in his address, it is not new
and it will never be old. Never!

"But it is such a case as this last, I warn you, that you are now
contemplating and are about to pass upon--a girl who is the victim
of such a change of mood. But that is not a legal, however great a
moral or social crime it may be. And it is only a curious and almost
unbelievably tight and yet utterly misleading set of circumstances
in connection with the death of this girl that chances to bring this
defendant before you at this time. I swear it. I truly know it to be
so. And it can and will be fully explained to your entire satisfaction
before this case is closed.

"However, in connection with this last statement, there is another
which must be made as a preface to all that is to follow.

"Gentlemen of the jury, the individual who is on trial here for his
life is a mental as well as a moral coward--no more and no less--not a
downright, hardhearted criminal by any means. Not unlike many men in
critical situations, he is a victim of a mental and moral fear complex.
Why, no one as yet has been quite able to explain. We all have one
secret bugbear or fear. And it is these two qualities, and no others,
that have placed him in the dangerous position in which he now finds
himself. It was cowardice, gentlemen--fear of a rule of the factory of
which his uncle is the owner, as well as fear of his own word given to
the officials above him, that caused him first to conceal the fact that
he was interested in the pretty country girl who had come to work for
him. And later, to conceal the fact that he was going with her.

"Yet no statutory crime of any kind there. You could not possibly
try a man for that, whatever privately you might think. And it was
cowardice, mental and moral, gentlemen, which prevented him, after he
became convinced that he could no longer endure a relationship which
had once seemed so beautiful, from saying outright that he could not
and would not continue with her, let alone marry her. Yet, will you
slay a man because he is the victim of fear? And again, after all, if
a man has once and truly decided that he cannot and will not endure a
given woman, or a woman a man--that to live with her could only prove
torturesome--what would you have that person do? Marry her? To what
end? That they may hate and despise and torture each other forever
after? Can you truly say that you agree with that as a rule, or a
method, or a law? Yet, as the defense sees it, a truly intelligent and
fair enough thing, under the circumstances, was done in this instance.
An offer, but without marriage--and alas, without avail--was made. A
suggestion for a separate life, with him working to support her while
she dwelt elsewhere. Her own letters, read only yesterday in this
court, indicate something of the kind. But the oh, so often tragic
insistence upon what in so many cases were best left undone! And then
that last, long, argumentative trip to Utica, Grass Lake, and Big
Bittern. And all to no purpose. Yet with no intention to kill or betray
unto death. Not the slightest. And we will show you why.

"Gentlemen, once more I insist that it was cowardice, mental and
moral, and not any plot or plan for any crime of any kind, that made
Clyde Griffiths travel with Roberta Alden under various aliases to all
the places I have just mentioned--that made him write 'Mr. and Mrs.
Carl Graham,' 'Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Golden'--mental and moral fear
of the great social mistake as well as sin that he had committed in
pursuing and eventually allowing himself to fall into this unhallowed
relationship with her--mental and moral fear or cowardice of what was
to follow.

"And again, it was mental and moral cowardice that prevented him
there at Big Bittern, once the waters of the lake had so accidentally
closed over her, from returning to Big Bittern Inn and making public
her death. Mental and Moral Cowardice--and nothing more and nothing
less. He was thinking of his wealthy relatives in Lycurgus, their
rule which his presence here on the lake with this girl would show to
have been broken--of the suffering and shame and rage of her parents.
And besides, there was Miss X--the brightest star in the brightest
constellation of all his dreams.

"We admit all that, and we are completely willing to concede that he
was, or must have been, thinking of all these things. The prosecution
charges, and we admit that such is the fact, that he had been so
completely ensnared by this Miss X, and she by him, that he was willing
and eager to forsake this first love who had given herself to him,
for one who, because of her beauty and her wealth, seemed so much
more desirable--even as to Roberta Alden he seemed more desirable
than others. And if she erred as to him--as plainly she did--might
not--might not he have erred eventually in his infatuated following of
one who in the ultimate--who can say?--might not have cared so much
for him. At any rate, one of his strongest fear thoughts at this time,
as he himself has confessed to us, his counsel, was that if this Miss
X learned that he had been up there with this other girl of whom she
had not even so much as heard, well then, it would mean the end of her
regard for him.

"I know that as you gentlemen view such things, such conduct has no
excuse for being. One may be the victim of an internal conflict between
two illicit moods, yet nevertheless, as the law and the church see it,
guilty of sin and crime. But the truth, none-the-less, is that they do
exist in the human heart, law or no law, religion or no religion, and
in scores of cases they motivate the actions of the victims. And we
admit that they motivated the actions of Clyde Griffiths.

"But did he kill Roberta Alden?

"No!

"And again, no!

"Or did he plot in any way, half-heartedly or otherwise, to drag her up
there under the guise of various aliases and then, because she would
not set him free, drown her? Ridiculous! Impossible! Insane! His plan
was completely and entirely different.

"But, gentlemen," and here he suddenly paused as though a new or
overlooked thought had just come to him, "perhaps you would be better
satisfied with my argument and the final judgment you are to render if
you were to have the testimony of one eye-witness at least of Roberta
Alden's death--one who, instead of just hearing a voice, was actually
present, and who saw and hence knows how she met her death."

He now looked at Jephson as much as to say: Now, Reuben, at last, here
we are! And Reuben, turning to Clyde, easily and yet with iron in his
every motion, whispered: "Well, here we are, Clyde, it's up to you now.
Only I'm going along with you, see? I've decided to examine you myself.
I've drilled and drilled you, and I guess you won't have any trouble in
telling me, will you?" He beamed on Clyde genially and encouragingly,
and Clyde, because of Belknap's strong plea as well as this newest and
best development in connection with Jephson, now stood up and with
almost a jaunty air, and one out of all proportion to his mood of but
four hours before, now whispered: "Gee! I'm glad you're going to do it.
I'll be all right now, I think."

But in the meantime the audience, hearing that an actual eyewitness
was to be produced, and not by the prosecution but the defense, was
at once upon its feet, craning and stirring. And Justice Oberwaltzer,
irritated to an exceptional degree by the informality characteristic
of this trial, was now rapping with his gavel while his clerk cried
loudly: "Order! Order! Unless everybody is seated, all spectators will
be dismissed! The deputies will please see that all are seated." And
then a hushed and strained silence falling as Belknap called: "Clyde
Griffiths, take the witness chair." And the audience--seeing to its
astonishment, Clyde, accompanied by Reuben Jephson, making his way
forward--straining and whispering in spite of all the gruff commands
of the judge and the bailiffs. And even Belknap, as he saw Jephson
approaching, being a little astonished, since it was he who according
to the original plan was to have led Clyde through his testimony. But
now Jephson drawing near to him as Clyde was being seated and sworn,
merely whispered: "Leave him to me, Alvin, I think it's best. He looks
a little too strained and shaky to suit me, but I feel sure I can pull
him through."

And then the audience noting the change and whispering in regard to it.
And Clyde, his large nervous eyes turning here and there, thinking:
Well, I'm on the witness stand at last. And now everybody's watching
me, of course. I must look very calm, like I didn't care so very much,
because I didn't really kill her. That's right, I didn't. Yet his skin
blue and the lids of his eyes red and puffy and his hands trembling
slightly in spite of himself. And Jephson, his long, tensile and
dynamic body like that of a swaying birch, turning toward him and
looking fixedly into Clyde's brown eyes with his blue ones, beginning:

"Now, Clyde, the first thing we want to do is make sure that the jury
and every one else hears our questions and answers. And next, when
you're all set, you're going to begin with your life as you remember
it--where you were born, where you came from, what your father did and
your mother, too, and finally, what you did and why, from the time you
went to work until now. I may interrupt you with a few questions now
and then, but in the main I'm going to let you tell it, because I know
you can tell it better than any one." Yet in order to reassure Clyde
and to make him know each moment that he was there--a wall, a bulwark,
between him and the eager, straining, unbelieving and hating crowd--he
now drew nearer, at times so close as to put one foot on the witness
stand, or if not that to lean forward and lay a hand on the arm of the
chair in which Clyde sat. And all the while saying, "Yay-uss--Yay-uss."
"And then what?" "And then?" And invariably at the strong and tonic or
protective sound of his voice Clyde stirring as with a bolstering force
and finding himself able, and without shaking or quavering, to tell the
short but straitened story of his youth.

"I was born in Grand Rapids, Michigan. My parents were conducting a
mission there at that time and used to hold open air meetings...."




                             CHAPTER XXIV


Clyde's testimony proceeded to the point where the family had removed
from Quincy, Illinois (a place resorted to on account of some Salvation
Army work offered his father and mother), to Kansas City, where from
his twelfth to his fifteenth year he had browsed about trying to find
something to do while still resenting the combination of school and
religious work expected of him.

"Were you up with your classes in the public schools?"

"No, sir. We had moved too much."

"In what grade were you when you were twelve years old?"

"Well, I should have been in the seventh but I was only in the sixth.
That's why I didn't like it."

"And how about the religious work of your parents?"

"Well, it was all right--only I never did like going out nights on the
street corners."

And so on, through five-and-ten cent store, soda and newspaper carrier
jobs, until at last he was a bell-hop at the Green-Davidson, the finest
hotel in Kansas City, as he informed them.

"But now, Clyde," proceeded Jephson who, fearful lest Mason on the
cross-examination and in connection with Clyde's credibility as a
witness should delve into the matter of the wrecked car and the slain
child in Kansas City and so mar the effect of the story he was now
about to tell, was determined to be beforehand in this. Decidedly, by
questioning him properly he could explain and soften all that, whereas
if left to Mason it could be tortured into something exceedingly dark
indeed. And so now he continued:

"And how long did you work there?"

"A little over a year."

"And why did you leave?"

"Well, it was on account of an accident."

"What kind of an accident?"

And here Clyde, previously prepared and drilled as to all this plunged
into the details which led up to and included the death of the little
girl and his flight--which Mason, true enough, had been intending
to bring up. But, now, as he listened to all this, he merely shook
his head and grunted ironically, "He'd better go into all that," he
commented. And Jephson, sensing the import of what he was doing--how
most likely he was, as he would have phrased it, "spiking" one of Mr.
Mason's best guns, continued with:

"How old were you then, Clyde, did you say?"

"Between seventeen and eighteen."

"And do you mean to tell me," he continued, after he had finished with
all of the questions he could think of in connection with all this,
"that you didn't know that you might have gone back there, since you
were not the one who took the car, and after explaining it all, been
paroled in the custody of your parents?"

"Object!" shouted Mason. "There's no evidence here to show that he
could have returned to Kansas City and been paroled in the custody of
his parents."

"Objection sustained!" boomed the judge from his high throne. "The
defense will please confine itself a little more closely to the letter
of the testimony."

"Exception," noted Belknap, from his seat.

"No, sir. I didn't know that," replied Clyde, just the same.

"Anyhow was that the reason after you got away that you changed your
name to Tenet as you told me?" continued Jephson.

"Yes, sir."

"By the way, just where did you get that name of Tenet, Clyde?"

"It was the name of a boy I used to play with in Quincy."

"Was he a good boy?"

"Object!" called Mason, from his chair. "Incompetent, immaterial,
irrelevant."

"Oh, he might have associated with a good boy in spite of what you
would like to have the jury believe, and in that sense it is very
relevant," sneered Jephson.

"Objection sustained!" boomed Justice Oberwaltzer.

"But didn't it occur to you at the time that he might object or that
you might be doing him an injustice in using his name, to cover the
identity of a fellow who was running away?"

"No, sir--I thought there were lots of Tenets."

An indulgent smile might have been expected at this point, but so
antagonistic and bitter was the general public toward Clyde that such
levity was out of the question in this courtroom.

"Now listen, Clyde," continued Jephson, having, as he had just seen,
failed to soften the mood of the throng, "you cared for your mother,
did you?--or didn't you?"

Objection and argument finally ending in the question being allowed.

"Yes, sir, certainly I cared for her," replied Clyde--but after a
slight hesitancy which was noticeable--a tightening of the throat and a
swelling and sinking of the chest as he exhaled and inhaled.

"Much?"

"Yes, sir--much." He didn't venture to look at any one now.

"Hadn't she always done as much as she could for you, in her way?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, Clyde, how was it, after all that, and even though that
dreadful accident had occurred, you could run away and stay away so
long without so much as one word to tell her that you were by no means
as guilty as you seemed and that she shouldn't worry because you were
working and trying to be a good boy again?"

"But I did write her--only I didn't sign my name."

"I see. Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. I sent her a little money. Ten dollars once."

"But you didn't think of going back at all?"

"No, sir. I was afraid that if I went back they might arrest me."

"In other words," and here Jephson emphasized this with great
clearness, "you were a moral and mental coward, as Mr. Belknap, my
colleague, said."

"I object to this interpretation of this defendant's testimony for the
benefit of the jury!" interrupted Mason.

"This defendant's testimony really needs no interpretation. It is very
plain and honest, as any one can see," quickly interjected Jephson.

"Objection sustained!" called the judge. "Proceed. Proceed."

"And it was because you were a moral and mental coward as I see it,
Clyde--not that I am condemning you for anything that you cannot help.
(After all, you didn't make yourself, did you?)"

But this was too much, and the judge here cautioned him to use more
discretion in framing his future questions.

"Then you went about in Alton, Peoria, Bloomington, Milwaukee, and
Chicago--hiding away in small rooms in back streets and working as a
dishwasher or soda fountain man, or a driver, and changing your name to
Tenet when you really might have gone back to Kansas City and resumed
your old place?" continued Jephson.

"I object! I object!" yelled Mason. "There is no evidence here to show
that he could have gone there and resumed his old place."

"Objection sustained," ruled Oberwaltzer, although at the time in
Jephson's pocket was a letter from Francis N. Squires, formerly captain
of the bell-boys of the Green-Davidson at the time Clyde was there, in
which he explained that apart from the one incident in connection with
the purloined automobile, he knew nothing derogatory to Clyde; and that
always previously, he had found him prompt, honest, willing, alert and
well-mannered. Also that at the time the accident occurred, he himself
had been satisfied that Clyde could have been little else than one of
those led and that if he had returned and properly explained matters he
would have been reinstated. It was irrelevant.

Thereafter followed Clyde's story of how, having fled from the
difficulties threatening him in Kansas City and having wandered here
and there for two years, he had finally obtained a place in Chicago
as a driver and later as a bell-boy at the Union League, and also how
while still employed at the first of these places he had written his
mother and later at her request was about to write his uncle, when,
accidentally meeting him at the Union League, he was invited by him to
come to Lycurgus. And thereupon, in their natural order, followed all
of the details of how he had gone to work, been promoted and instructed
by his cousin and the foreman as to the various rules, and then
later how he had met Roberta and still later Miss X. But in between
came all the details as to how and why he had courted Roberta Alden,
and how and why, having once secured her love he felt and thought
himself content--but how the arrival of Miss X, and her overpowering
fascination for him, had served completely to change all his notions
in regard to Roberta, and although he still admired her, caused him to
feel that never again as before could he desire to marry her.

But Jephson, anxious to divert the attention of the jury from the fact
that Clyde was so very fickle--a fact too trying to be so speedily
introduced into the case--at once interposed with:

"Clyde! You really loved Roberta Alden at first, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, then, you must have known, or at least you gathered from her
actions, from the first, didn't you, that she was a perfectly good and
innocent and religious girl."

"Yes, sir, that's how I felt about her," replied Clyde, repeating what
he had been told to say.

"Well, then, just roughly now, without going into detail, do you
suppose you could explain to yourself and this jury how and why and
where and when those changes came about which led to that relationship
which we all of us" (and here he looked boldly and wisely and coldly
out over the audience and then afterwards upon the jurors) "deplore.
How was it, if you thought so highly of her at first that you could so
soon afterwards descend to this evil relationship? Didn't you know that
all men, and all women also, view it as wrong, and outside of marriage
unforgivable--a statutory crime?"

The boldness and ironic sting of this was sufficient to cause at first
a hush, later a slight nervous tremor on the part of the audience
which, Mason as well as Justice Oberwaltzer noting, caused both to
frown apprehensively. Why, this brazen young cynic! How dared he,
via innuendo and in the guise of serious questioning, intrude such
a thought as this, which by implication at least picked at the very
foundations of society--religious and moral! At the same time there he
was, standing boldly and leoninely, the while Clyde replied:

"Yes, sir, I suppose I did--certainly--but I didn't try to seduce her
at first or at any time, really. I was in love with her."

"You were in love with her?"

"Yes, sir."

"Very much?"

"Very much."

"And was she as much in love with you at that time?"

"Yes, sir, she was."

"From the very first?"

"From the very first."

"She told you so?"

"Yes, sir."

"At the time she left the Newtons--you have heard all the testimony
here in regard to that--did you induce or seek to induce her in any
way, by any trick or agreement, to leave there?"

"No, sir, I didn't. She wanted to leave there of her own accord. She
wanted me to help her find a place."

"She wanted you to help her find a place?"

"Yes, sir."

"And just why?"

"Because she didn't know the city very well and she thought maybe I
could tell her where there was a nice room she could get--one that she
could afford."

"And did you tell her about the room she took at the Gilpins'?"

"No, sir, I didn't. I never told her about any room. She found it
herself." (This was the exact answer he had memorized.)

"But why didn't you help her?"

"Because I was busy, days and most evenings. And besides I thought she
knew better what she wanted than I did--the kind of people and all."

"Did you personally ever see the Gilpin place before she went there?"

"No, sir."

"Ever have any discussion with her before she moved there as to the
kind of a room she was to take--its position as regards to entrance,
exit, privacy, or anything of that sort?"

"No, sir, I never did."

"Never insisted, for instance, that she take a certain type of room
which you could slip in and out of at night or by day without being
seen?"

"I never did. Besides, no one could very well slip in or out of that
house without being seen."

"And why not?"

"Because the door to her room was right next to the door to the general
front entrance where everybody went in and out and anybody that was
around could see." That was another answer he had memorized.

"But you slipped in and out, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, sir--that is, we both decided from the first that the less
we were seen together anywhere, the better."

"On account of that factory rule?"

"Yes, sir--on account of that factory rule."

And then the story of his various difficulties with Roberta, due to
Miss X coming into his life.

"Now, Clyde, we will have to go into the matter of this Miss X a
little. Because of an agreement between the defense and the prosecution
which you gentlemen of the jury fully understand, we can only touch on
this incidentally, since it all concerns an entirely innocent person
whose real name can be of no service here anyhow. But some of the
facts must be touched upon, although we will deal with them as light
as possible, as much for the sake of the innocent living as the worthy
dead. And I am sure Miss Alden would have it so if she were alive.
But now in regard to Miss X," he continued, turning to Clyde, "it is
already agreed by both sides that you met her in Lycurgus some time in
November or December of last year. That is correct, is it not?"

"Yes, sir, that is correct," replied Clyde, sadly.

"And that at once you fell very much in love with her?"

"Yes, sir. That's true."

"She was rich?"

"Yes, sir."

"Beautiful?"

"I believe it is admitted by all that she is," he said to the court in
general without requiring or anticipating a reply from Clyde, yet the
latter, so thoroughly drilled had he been, now replied: "Yes, sir."

"Had you two--yourself and Miss Alden, I mean--at that time when you
first met Miss X already established that illicit relationship referred
to?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, now, in view of all that--but no, one moment, there is something
else I want to ask you first--now, let me see--at the time that you
first met this Miss X you were still in love with Roberta Alden, were
you--or were you not?"

"I was still in love with her--yes, sir."

"You had not, up to that time at least, in any way become weary of her?
Or had you?"

"No, sir. I had not."

"Her love and her companionship were just as precious and delightful to
you as ever?"

"Yes, sir, they were."

And as Clyde said that, he was thinking back and it seemed to him that
what he had just said was really true. It was true that just before
meeting Sondra he was actually at the zenith of content and delight
with Roberta.

"And what, if any, were your plans for your future with Miss
Alden--before you met this Miss X? You must have thought at times of
that, didn't you?"

"Well, not exactly," (and as he said this he licked his lips in sheer
nervousness). "You see, I never had any real plan to do anything--that
is, to do anything that wasn't quite right with her. And neither did
she, of course. We just drifted kinda, from the first. It was being
alone there so much, maybe. She hadn't taken up with anybody yet and I
hadn't either. And then there was that rule that kept me from taking
her about anywhere, and once we were together, of course we just went
on without thinking very much about it, I suppose--either of us."

"You just drifted because nothing had happened as yet and you didn't
suppose anything would. Is that the way?"

"No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. That's the way it was." Clyde was very
eager to get these much-rehearsed and very important answers, just
right.

"But you must have thought of something--one or both of you. You were
twenty-one and she was twenty-three."

"Yes, sir. I suppose we did--I suppose I did think of something now and
then."

"And what was it that you thought? Can you recollect?"

"Well, yes, sir, I suppose I can. That is, I know that I did think at
times that if things went all right and I made a little more money
and she got a place somewhere else, that I would begin taking her out
openly, and then afterwards maybe, if she and I kept on caring for each
other as we did then, marry her, maybe."

"You actually thought of marrying her then, did you?"

"Yes, sir. I know I did in the way that I've said, of course."

"But that was before you met this Miss X?"

"Yes, sir, that was before that."

"Beautifully done!" observed Mason, sarcastically, under his breath to
State Senator Redmond. "Excellent stage play," replied Redmond in a
stage whisper.

"But did you ever tell her in so many words?" continued Jephson.

"Well, no, sir. I don't recall that I did--not just in so many words."

"You either told her or you didn't tell her. Now, which was it?"

"Well, neither, quite. I used to tell her that I loved her and that I
never wanted her to leave me and that I hoped she never would."

"But not that you wanted to marry her?"

"No, sir. Not that I wanted to marry her."

"Well, well, all right!--and she--what did she say?"

"That she never would leave me," replied Clyde, heavily and fearsomely,
thinking, as he did so, of Roberta's last cries and her eyes bent on
him. And he took from his pocket a handkerchief and began to wipe his
moist, cold face and hands.

("Well staged!" murmured Mason, softly and cynically. "Pretty
shrewd--pretty shrewd!" commented Redmond, lightly.)

"But, tell me," went on Jephson, softly and coldly, "feeling as you did
about Miss Alden, how was it that upon meeting this Miss X, you could
change so quickly? Are you so fickle that you don't know your own mind
from day to day?"

"Well, I didn't think so up to that time--no, sir!"

"Had you ever had a strong and binding love affair at any time in your
life before you met Miss Alden?"

"No, sir."

"But did you consider this one with Miss Alden strong and binding--a
true love affair--up to the time you met this Miss X?"

"Yes, sir, I did."

"And afterwards--then what?"

"Well--afterwards--it wasn't quite like that any more."

"You mean to say that on sight of Miss X, after encountering her once
or twice, you ceased to care for Miss Alden entirely?"

"Well, no, sir. It wasn't quite like that," volunteered Clyde, swiftly
and earnestly. "I did continue to care for her some--quite a lot,
really. But before I knew it I had completely lost my head over--over
Miss--Miss----"

"Yes, this Miss X. We know. You fell madly and unreasonably in love
with her. Was that the way of it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then?"

"Well--and then--I just couldn't care for Miss Alden so much any more."
A thin film of moisture covered Clyde's forehead and cheeks as he spoke.

"I see! I see!" went on Jephson, oratorically and loudly, having the
jury and audience in mind. "A case of the Arabian Nights, of the
enscorcelled and the enscorcellor."

"I don't think I know what you mean," said Clyde.

"A case of being bewitched, my poor boy--by beauty, love, wealth, by
things that we sometimes think we want very, very much, and cannot ever
have--that is what I mean, and that is what much of the love in the
world amounts to."

"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, quite innocently, concluding rightly that
this was a mere show of rhetoric on Jephson's part.

"But what I want to know is--how was it that loving Miss Alden as much
as you say you did--and having reached that relationship which should
have been sanctioned by marriage--how was it that you could have felt
so little bound or obligated to her as to entertain the idea of casting
her over for this Miss X? Now just how was that? I would like to know,
and so would this jury, I am sure. Where was your sense of gratitude?
Your sense of moral obligation? Do you mean to say that you have none?
We want to know."

This was really cross-examination--an attack on his own witness. Yet
Jephson was within his rights and Mason did not interfere.

"Well ..." and here Clyde hesitated and stumbled, quite as if he had
not been instructed as to all this beforehand, and seemed to and did
truly finger about in his own mind or reason for some thought that
would help him to explain all this. For although it was true that he
had memorized the answer, now that he was confronted by the actual
question here in court, as well as the old problem that had so confused
and troubled him in Lycurgus, he could scarcely think clearly of all he
had been told to say, but instead twisted and turned, and finally came
out with:

"The fact is, I didn't think about those things at all very much. I
couldn't after I saw her. I tried to at times, but I couldn't. I only
wanted her and I didn't want Miss Alden any more. I knew I wasn't
doing right--exactly--and I felt sorry for Roberta--but just the same
I didn't seem able to do anything much about it. I could only think of
Miss X and I couldn't think of Roberta as I had before no matter how
hard I tried."

"Do you mean to say that you didn't suffer in your own conscience on
account of this?"

"Yes, sir, I suffered," replied Clyde. "I knew I wasn't doing right,
and it made me worry a lot about her and myself, but just the same I
didn't seem to be able to do any better." (He was repeating words that
Jephson had written out for him, although at the time he first read
them he felt them to be fairly true. He had suffered some.)

"And then?"

"Well, then she began to complain because I didn't go round to see her
as much as before."

"In other words, you began to neglect her."

"Yes, sir, some--but not entirely--no, sir."

"Well, when you found you were so infatuated with this Miss X, what did
you do? Did you go and tell Miss Alden that you were no longer in love
with her but in love with some one else?"

"No, I didn't. Not then."

"Why not then? Did you think it fair and honorable to be telling two
girls at once that you cared for them?"

"No, sir, but it wasn't quite like that either. You see at that time
I was just getting acquainted with Miss X, and I wasn't telling her
anything. She wouldn't let me. But I knew then, just the same, that I
couldn't care for Miss Alden any more."

"But what about the claim Miss Alden had on you? Didn't you feel that
that was enough or should be, to prevent you from running after another
girl?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, why did you then?"

"I couldn't resist her."

"Miss X, you mean?"

"Yes, sir."

"And so you continued to run after her until you had made her care for
you?"

"No, sir, that wasn't the way at all."

"Well then, what was the way?"

"I just met her here and there and got crazy about her."

"I see. But still you didn't go and tell Miss Alden that you couldn't
care for her any longer?"

"No, sir. Not then."

"And why not?"

"Because I thought it would hurt her, and I didn't want to do that."

"Oh, I see. You didn't have the moral or mental courage to do it then?"

"I don't know about the moral or mental courage," replied Clyde, a
little hurt and irritated by this description of himself, "but I felt
sorry for her just the same. She used to cry and I didn't have the
heart to tell her anything."

"I see. Well, let it stand that way, if you want to. But now answer
me one other thing. That relationship between you two--what about
that--after you knew that you didn't care for her any more. Did that
continue?"

"Well, no, sir, not so very long, anyhow," replied Clyde, most
nervously and shamefacedly. He was thinking of all the people before
him now--of his mother--Sondra--of all the people throughout the entire
United States--who would read and so know. And on first being shown
these questions weeks and weeks before he had wanted to know of Jephson
what the use of all that was. And Jephson had replied: "Educational
effect. The quicker and harder we can shock 'em with some of the real
facts of life around here, the easier it is going to be for you to get
a little more sane consideration of what your problem was. But don't
worry your head over that now. When the time comes, just answer 'em
and leave the rest to us. We know what we're doing." And so now Clyde
added:

"You see, after meeting Miss X I couldn't care for her so much that way
any more, and so I tried not to go around her so much any more. But
anyhow, it wasn't so very long after that before she got in trouble and
then--well----"

"I see. And when was that--about?"

"Along in the latter part of January last year."

"And once that happened, then what? Did you or did you not feel that it
was your duty under the circumstances to marry her?"

"Well, no--not the way things were then--that is, if I could get her
out of it, I mean."

"And why not? What do you mean by 'as things were then'?"

"Well, you see, it was just as I told you. I wasn't caring for her any
more, and since I hadn't promised to marry her, and she knew it, I
thought it would be fair enough if I helped her out of it and then told
her that I didn't care for her as I once did."

"But couldn't you help her out of it?"

"No, sir. But I tried."

"You went to that druggist who testified here?"

"Yes, sir."

"To anybody else?"

"Yes, sir--to seven others before I could get anything at all."

"But what you got didn't help?"

"No, sir."

"Did you go to that young haberdasher who testified here as he said?"

"Yes, sir."

"And did he give you the name of any particular doctor?"

"Well--yes--but I wouldn't care to say which one."

"All right, you needn't. But did you send Miss Alden to any doctor?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did she go alone or did you go with her?"

"I went with her--that is, to the door."

"Why only to the door?"

"Well, we talked it over, and she thought just as I did, that it might
be better that way. I didn't have any too much money at the time. I
thought he might be willing to help her for less if she went by herself
than if we both went together."

("I'll be damned if he isn't stealing most of my thunder," thought
Mason to himself at this point. "He's forestalling most of the things
I intended to riddle him with." And he sat up worried. Burleigh
and Redmond and Earl Newcomb--all now saw clearly what Jephson was
attempting to do.)

"I see. And it wasn't by any chance because you were afraid that your
uncle or Miss X might hear of it?"

"Oh, yes, I ... that is, we both thought of that and talked of it. She
understood how things were with me down there."

"But not about Miss X?"

"No, not about Miss X."

"And why not?"

"Well, because I didn't think I could very well tell her just then. It
would have made her feel too bad. I wanted to wait until she was all
right again."

"And then tell her and leave her. Is that what you mean?"

"Well, yes, if I still couldn't care for her any more--yes, sir."

"But not if she was in trouble?"

"Well, no, sir, not if she was in trouble. But you see, at that time I
was expecting to be able to get her out of that."

"I see. But didn't her condition affect your attitude toward her--cause
you to want to straighten the whole thing out by giving up this Miss X
and marrying Miss Alden?"

"Well, no, sir--not then exactly--that is, not at that time."

"How do you mean--'not at that time'?"

"Well, I did come to feel that way later, as I told you--but not
then--that was afterwards--after we started on our trip to the
Adirondacks."

"And why not then?"

"I've said why. I was too crazy about Miss X to think of anything but
her."

"You couldn't change even then?"

"No, sir. I felt sorry, but I couldn't."

"I see. But never mind that now. I will come to that later. Just now
I want to have you explain to the jury, if you can, just what it was
about this Miss X, as contrasted with Miss Alden, that made her seem
so very much more desirable in your eyes. Just what characteristics of
manner or face or mind or position--or whatever it was that so enticed
you? Or do you know?"

This was a question which both Belknap and Jephson in various ways and
for various reasons--psychic, legal, personal--had asked Clyde before,
and with varying results. At first he could not and would not discuss
her at all, fearing that whatever he said would be seized upon and
used in his trial and the newspapers along with her name. But later,
when because of the silence of the newspapers everywhere in regard to
her true name, it became plain that she was not to be featured, he
permitted himself to talk more freely about her. But now here on the
stand, he grew once more nervous and reticent.

"Well, you see, it's hard to say. She was very beautiful to me. Much
more so than Roberta--but not only that, she was different from any
one I had ever known--more independent--and everybody paid so much
attention to what she did and what she said. She seemed to know more
than any one else I ever knew. Then she dressed awfully well, and was
very rich and in society and her name and pictures were always in the
paper. I used to read about her every day when I didn't see her, and
that seemed to keep her before me a lot. She was daring, too--not so
simple or trusting as Miss Alden was--and at first it was hard for me
to believe that she was becoming so interested in me. It got so that I
couldn't think of any one or anything else, and I didn't want Roberta
any more. I just couldn't, with Miss X always before me."

"Well, it looks to me as if you might have been in love, or hypnotized
at that," insinuated Jephson at the conclusion of this statement, the
tail of his right eye upon the jury. "If that isn't a picture of pretty
much all gone, I guess I don't know one when I see it." But with the
audience and the jury as stony-faced as before, as he could see.

But immediately thereafter the swift and troubled waters of the alleged
plot which was the stern trail to which all this was leading.

"Well, now, Clyde, from there on, just what happened? Tell us now, as
near as you can recall. Don't shade it or try to make yourself look any
better or any worse. She is dead, and you may be, eventually, if these
twelve gentlemen here finally so decide." (And at this an icy chill
seemed to permeate the entire courtroom as well as Clyde.) "But the
truth for the peace of your own soul is the best,"--and here Jephson
thought of Mason--let him counteract that if he can.

"Yes, sir," said Clyde, simply.

"Well, then, after she got in trouble and you couldn't help her,
then what? What was it you did? How did you act?... By the way, one
moment--what was your salary at that time?"

"Twenty-five dollars a week," confessed Clyde.

"No other source of income?"

"I didn't quite hear."

"Was there any other source from which you were obtaining any money at
that time in any way?"

"No, sir."

"And how much was your room?"

"Seven dollars a week."

"And your board?"

"Oh, from five to six."

"Any other expenses?"

"Yes, sir--my clothes and laundry."

"You had to stand your share of whatever social doings were on foot,
didn't you?"

"Objected to as leading!" called Mason.

"Objection sustained," replied Justice Oberwaltzer.

"Any other expenses that you can think of?"

"Well, there were carfares and trainfares. And then I had to share in
whatever social expenses there were."

"Exactly!" cried Mason, with great irritation. "I wish you would quit
leading this parrot here."

"I wish the honorable district attorney would mind his own business!"
snorted Jephson--as much for Clyde's benefit as for his own. He wished
to break down his fear of Mason. "I'm examining this defendant, and as
for parrots we've seen quite a number of them around here in the last
few weeks, and coached to the throat like school-boys."

"That's a malicious lie!" shouted Mason. "I object and demand an
apology."

"The apology is to me and to this defendant, if your Honor pleases, and
will be exacted quickly if your Honor will only adjourn this court for
a few minutes," and then stepping directly in front of Mason, he added:
"And I will be able to obtain it without any judicial aid." Whereupon
Mason, thinking he was about to be attacked, squared off, the while
assistants and deputy sheriffs, and stenographers and writers, and the
clerk of the court himself, gathered round and seized the two lawyers
while Justice Oberwaltzer pounded violently on his desk with his gavel:

"Gentlemen! Gentlemen! You are both in contempt of court, both of you!
You will apologize to the court and to each other, or I'll declare a
mis-trial and commit you both for ten days and fine you five hundred
dollars each." With this he leaned down and frowned on both. And at
once Jephson replied, most suavely and ingratiatingly: "Under the
circumstances, your Honor, I apologize to you and to the attorney for
the People and to this jury. The attack on this defendant, by the
district attorney, seemed too unfair and uncalled for--that was all."

"Never mind that," continued Oberwaltzer.

"Under the circumstances, your Honor, I apologize to you and to the
counsel for the defense. I was a little hasty, perhaps. And to this
defendant also," sneered Mason, after first looking into Justice
Oberwaltzer's angry and uncompromising eyes and then into Clyde's, who
instantly recoiled and turned away.

"Proceed," growled Oberwaltzer, sullenly.

"Now, Clyde," resumed Jephson anew, as calm as though he had just lit
and thrown away a match. "You say your salary was twenty-five dollars
and you had these various expenses. Had you, up to this time, been able
to put aside any money for a rainy day?"

"No, sir--not much--not any, really."

"Well, then, supposing some doctor to whom Miss Alden had applied
had been willing to assist her and wanted--say a hundred dollars or
so--were you ready to furnish that?"

"No, sir--not right off, that is."

"Did she have any money of her own that you know of?"

"None that I know of--no, sir."

"Well, how did you intend to help her then?"

"Well, I thought if either she or I found any one and he would wait
and let me pay for it on time, that I could save and pay it that way,
maybe."

"I see. You were perfectly willing to do that, were you?"

"Yes, sir, I was."

"You told her so, did you?"

"Yes, sir. She knew that."

"Well, when neither you nor she could find any one to help her, then
what? What did you do next?"

"Well, then she wanted me to marry her."

"Right away?"

"Yes, sir. Right away."

"And what did you say to that?"

"I told her I just couldn't then. I didn't have any money to get
married on. And besides if I did and didn't go away somewhere, at least
until the baby was born, everybody would find out and I couldn't have
stayed there anyhow. And she couldn't either."

"And why not?"

"Well, there were my relatives. They wouldn't have wanted to keep me
any more, or her either, I guess."

"I see. They wouldn't have considered you fit for the work you were
doing, or her either. Is that it?"

"I thought so, anyhow," replied Clyde.

"And then what?"

"Well, even if I had wanted to go away with her and marry her, I didn't
have enough money to do that and she didn't either. I would have had to
give up my place and gone and found another somewhere before I could
let her come. Besides that, I didn't know any place where I could go
and earn as much as I did there."

"How about hotel work? Couldn't you have gone back to that?"

"Well, maybe--if I had had an introduction of some kind. But I didn't
want to go back to that."

"And why not?"

"Well, I didn't like it so much any more--not that kind of life."

"But you didn't mean that you didn't want to do anything at all, did
you? That wasn't your attitude, was it?"

"Oh, no, sir. That wasn't it. I told her right away if she would go
away for a while--while she had her baby--and let me stay on there in
Lycurgus, that I would try to live on less and give her all I could
save until she was all right again."

"But not marry her?"

"No, sir, I didn't feel that I could do that then."

"And what did she say to that?"

"She wouldn't do it. She said she couldn't and wouldn't go through with
it unless I would marry her."

"I see. Then and there?"

"Well, yes--pretty soon, anyhow. She was willing to wait a little
while, but she wouldn't go away unless I would marry her."

"And did you tell her that you didn't care for her any more?"

"Well, nearly--yes, sir."

"What do you mean by 'nearly'?"

"Well, that I didn't want to. Besides, she knew I didn't care for her
any more. She said so herself."

"To you, at that time?"

"Yes, sir. Lots of times."

"Well, yes, that's true--it was in all of those letters of hers that
were read here. But when she refused so flatly, what did you do then?"

"Well, I didn't know what to do. But I thought maybe if I could get
her to go up to her home for a while, while I tried and saved what I
could--well ... maybe ... once she was up there and saw how much I
didn't want to marry her----" (Clyde paused and fumbled at his lips.
This lying was hard.)

"Yes, go on. And remember, the truth, however ashamed of it you may be,
is better than any lie."

"And maybe when she was a little more frightened and not so
determined----"

"Weren't you frightened, too?"

"Yes, sir, I was."

"Well, go on."

"That then--well--maybe if I offered her all that I had been able to
save up to then--you see I thought maybe I might be able to borrow some
from some one too--that she might be willing to go away and not make me
marry her--just live somewhere and let me help her."

"I see. But she wouldn't agree to that?"

"Well, no--not to my not marrying her, no--but to going up there for a
month, yes. I couldn't get her to say that she would let me off."

"But did you at that or any other time before or subsequent to that say
that you would come up there and marry her?"

"No, sir. I never did."

"Just what did you say then?"

"I said that ... as soon as I could get the money," stuttered Clyde
at this point, so nervous and shamed was he, "I would come for her in
about a month and we could go away somewhere until--until--well, until
she was out of that."

"But you did not tell her that you would marry her?"

"No, sir. I did not."

"But she wanted you to, of course."

"Yes, sir."

"Had you any notion that she could force you so to do at that
time--marry her against your will, I mean?"

"No, sir, I didn't. Not if I could help it. My plan was to wait as long
as I could and save all the money I could and then when the time came
just refuse and give her all the money that I had and help her all I
could from then on."

"But you know," proceeded Jephson, most suavely and diplomatically
at this point, "there are various references in these letters here
which Miss Alden wrote you"--and he reached over and from the district
attorney's table picked up the original letters of Roberta and weighed
them solemnly in his hand--"to a _plan_ which you two had in connection
with this trip--or at least that she seemed to think you had. Now,
exactly what was that plan? She distinctly refers to it, if I recall
aright, as 'our plan.'"

"I know that," replied Clyde--since for two months now he, along with
Belknap and Jephson, had discussed this particular question. "But the
only plan I know of"--and here he did his best to look frank and be
convincing--"was the one that I offered over and over."

"And what was that?"

"Why, that she go away and take a room somewhere and let me help her
and come over and see her once in a while."

"Well, no, you're wrong there," returned Jephson, slyly. "That isn't
and couldn't be the plan she had in mind. She says in one of these
letters that she knows it will be hard on you to have to go away and
stay so long, or until she is out of this thing, but that it can't be
helped."

"Yes, I know," replied Clyde, quickly and exactly as he had been told
to do, "but that was her plan, not mine. She kept saying to me most
of the time that that was what she wanted me to do, and that I would
have to do it. She told me that over the telephone several times, and I
may have said all right, all right, not meaning that I agreed with her
entirely but that I wanted to talk with her about it some more later."

"I see. And so that's what you think--that she meant one thing and you
meant another."

"Well, I know I never agreed to her plan--exactly. That is, I never did
any more than just to ask her to wait and not do anything until I could
get money enough together to come up there and talk to her some more
and get her to go away--the way I suggested."

"But if she wouldn't accede to your plan, then what?"

"Well, then I was going to tell her about Miss X, and beg her to let me
go."

"And if she still wouldn't?"

"Well, then I thought I might run away, but I didn't like to think
about that very much."

"You know, Clyde, of course, that some here are of the opinion that
there was a plot on your part which originated in your mind about this
time to conceal your identity and hers and lure her up there to one of
those lone lakes in the Adirondacks and slay her or drown her in cold
blood, in order that you might be free to marry this Miss X. Any truth
in that? Tell this jury--yes or no--which is it?"

"No! No! I never did plot to kill her, or any one," protested Clyde,
quite dramatically, and clutching at the arms of his chair and seeking
to be as emphatic as possible, since he had been instructed so to do.
At the same time he arose in his seat and sought to look stern and
convincing, although in his heart and mind was the crying knowledge
that he had so plotted, and this it was that most weakened him at
this moment--most painfully and horribly weakened him. The eyes of all
these people. The eyes of the judge and jury and Mason and all the men
and women of the press. And once more his brow was wet and cold and he
licked his thin lips nervously and swallowed with difficulty because
his throat was dry.

And then it was that piecemeal, and beginning with the series of
letters written by Roberta to Clyde after she reached her home and
ending with the one demanding that he come for her or she would return
to Lycurgus and expose him, Jephson took up the various phases of the
"alleged" plot and crime, and now did his best to minimize and finally
dispel all that had been testified to so far.

Clyde's suspicious actions in not writing Roberta. Well, he was
afraid of complications in connection with his relatives, his work,
everything. And the same with his arranging to meet her in Fonda. He
had no plan as to any trip with her anywhere in particular at the
time. He only thought vaguely of meeting her somewhere--anywhere--and
possibly persuading her to leave him. But July arriving and his plan
still so indefinite, the first thing that occurred to him was that they
might go off to some inexpensive resort somewhere. It was Roberta who
in Utica had suggested some of the lakes north of there. It was there
in the hotel, not at the railway station, that he had secured some maps
and folders--a fatal contention in one sense, for Mason had one folder
with a Lycurgus House stamp on the cover, which Clyde had not noticed
at the time. And as he was so testifying, Mason was thinking of this.
In regard to leaving Lycurgus by a back street--well, there had been
a desire to conceal his departure with Roberta, of course, but only
to protect her name and his from notoriety. And so with the riding in
separate cars, registering as Mr. and Mrs. Clifford Golden, and so on
indefinitely throughout the entire list of shifty concealments and
evasions. In regard to the two hats, well, the one hat was soiled and
seeing one that he liked he bought it. Then when he lost the hat in
the accident he naturally put on the other. To be sure, he had owned
and carried a camera, and it was true that he had it at the Cranstons'
on his first visit there on the eighteenth of June. The only reason he
denied having it at first was because he was afraid of being identified
with this purely accidental death of Roberta in a way that would be
difficult to explain. He had been falsely charged with her murder
immediately upon his arrest in the woods, and he was fearful of his
entire connection with this ill-fated trip, and not having any lawyer
or any one to say a word for him, he thought it best to say nothing
and so for the time being had denied everything, although at once on
being provided counsel he had confided to his attorneys the true facts
of the case.

And so, too, with the missing suit, which because it was wet and
muddy he had done up in a bundle in the woods and after reaching the
Cranstons' had deposited it behind some stones there, intending to
return and secure it and have it dry-cleaned. But on being introduced
to Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson he had at once told both and they had
secured it and had it cleaned for him.

"But now, Clyde, in regard to your plans and your being out on that
lake in the first place--let's hear about that now."

And then--quite as Jephson had outlined it to Belknap, came the story
of how he and Roberta had reached Utica and afterwards Grass Lake. And
yet no plan. He intended, if worst came to worst, to tell her of his
great love for Miss X and appeal to her sympathy and understanding
to set him free at the same time that he offered to do anything that
he could for her. If she refused he intended to defy her and leave
Lycurgus, if necessary, and give up everything.

"But when I saw her at Fonda, and later in Utica, looking as tired and
worried as she was," and here Clyde was endeavoring to give the ring
of sincerity to words carefully supplied him, "and sort of helpless, I
began to feel sorry for her again."

"Yes, and then what?"

"Well, I wasn't quite so sure whether in case she refused to let me off
I could go through with leaving her."

"Well, what did you decide then?"

"Not anything just then. I listened to what she had to say and I tried
to tell her how hard it was going to be for me to do anything much,
even if I did go away with her. I only had fifty dollars."

"Yes?"

"And then she began to cry, and I decided I couldn't talk to her any
more about it there. She was too run-down and nervous. So I asked her
if there wasn't any place she would like to go to for a day or two
to brace herself up a little," went on Clyde, only here on account
of the blackness of the lie he was telling he twisted and swallowed
in the weak, stigmatic way that was his whenever he was attempting
something which was beyond him--any untruth or a feat of skill--and
then added: "And she said yes, maybe to one of those lakes up in the
Adirondacks--it didn't make much difference which one--if we could
afford it. And when I told her, mostly because of the way she was
feeling, that I thought we could----"

"Then you really only went up there on her account?"

"Yes, sir, only on account of her."

"I see. Go on."

"Well, then she said if I would go downstairs or somewhere and get some
folders we might be able to find a place up there somewhere where it
wasn't so expensive."

"And did you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, and then what?"

"Well, we looked them over and we finally hit on Grass Lake."

"Who did? The two of you--or she?"

"Well, she took one folder and I took another, and in hers she found
an ad about an inn up there where two people could stay for twenty-one
dollars a week, or five dollars a day for the two. And I thought we
couldn't do much better than that for one day."

"Was one day all you intended to stay?"

"No, sir. Not if she wanted to stay longer. My idea at first was that
we might stay one or two days or three. I couldn't tell--whatever time
it took me to talk things out with her and make her understand and see
where I stood."

"I see. And then...?"

"Well, then we went up to Grass Lake the next morning."

"In separate cars still?"

"Yes, sir--in separate cars."

"And when you got there?"

"Why, we registered."

"How?"

"Clifford Graham and wife."

"Still afraid some one would know who you were?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you try to disguise your handwriting in any way?"

"Yes, sir--a little."

"But just why did you always use your own initials--C. G.?"

"Well, I thought that the initials on my bag should be the same as the
initials on the register, and still not be my name either."

"I see. Clever in one sense, not so clever in another--just half
clever, which is the worst of all." At this Mason half rose in his seat
as though to object, but evidently changing his mind, sank slowly back
again. And once more Jephson's right eye swiftly and inquiringly swept
the jury to his right. "Well, did you finally explain to her that you
wanted to be done with it all as you had planned--or did you not?"

"I wanted to talk to her about it just after we got there if I
could--the next morning, anyhow--but just as soon as we got off up
there and got settled she kept saying to me that if I would only marry
her then--that she would not want to stay married long--that she was so
sick and worried and felt so bad--that all she wanted to do was to get
through and give the baby a name, and after that she would go away and
let me go my way, too."

"And then?"

"Well, and then--then we went out on the lake----"

"Which lake, Clyde?"

"Why, Grass Lake. We went out for a row after we got there."

"Right away? In the afternoon?"

"Yes, sir. She wanted to go. And then while we were out there rowing
around----" (He paused.)

"Yes, go on."

"She got to crying again, and she seemed so much up against it and
looked so sick and so worried that I decided that after all she was
right and I was wrong--that it wouldn't be right, on account of the
baby and all, not to marry her, and so I thought I had better do it."

"I see. A change of heart. And did you tell her that then and there?"

"No, sir."

"And why not? Weren't you satisfied with the trouble you had caused her
so far?"

"Yes, sir. But you see just as I was going to talk to her at that time
I got to thinking of all the things I had been thinking before I came
up."

"What, for instance?"

"Why, Miss X and my life in Lycurgus, and what we'd be up against in
case we did go away this way."

"Yes."

"And ... well ... and then I couldn't just tell her then--not that day,
anyhow."

"Well, when did you tell her then?"

"Well, I told her not to cry any more--that I thought maybe it would
be all right if she gave me twenty-four hours more to think things all
out--that maybe we'd be able to settle on something."

"And then?"

"Well, then she said after a while that she didn't care for Grass Lake.
She wished we would go away from there."

"_She_ did?"

"Yes. And then we got out the maps again and I asked a fellow at the
hotel there if he knew about the lakes up there. And he said of all the
lakes around there Big Bittern was the most beautiful. I had seen it
once, and I told Roberta about it and what the man said, and then she
asked why didn't we go there."

"And is that why you went there?"

"Yes, sir."

"No other reason?"

"No, sir--none--except that it was back, or south, and we were going
that way anyhow."

"I see. And that was Thursday, July eighth?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, now, Clyde, as you have seen, it has been charged here that you
took Miss Alden to and out on that lake with the sole and premeditated
intent of killing her--murdering her--finding some unobserved and quiet
spot and then first striking her with your camera, or an oar, or club,
or stone maybe, and then drowning her. Now, what have you to say to
that? Is that true, or isn't it?"

"No, sir! It's not true!" returned Clyde, clearly and emphatically. "I
never went there of my own accord in the first place, and I only went
there because she didn't like Grass Lake." And here, because he had
been sinking down in his chair, he pulled himself up and looked at the
jury and the audience with what measure of strength and conviction he
could summon--as previously he had been told to do. At the same time he
added: "And I wanted to please her in any way that I could so that she
might be a little more cheerful."

"Were you still as sorry for her on this Thursday as you had been the
day before?"

"Yes, sir--more, I think."

"And had you definitely made up your mind by then as to what you wanted
to do?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, and just what was that?"

"Well, I had decided to play as fair as I could. I had been thinking
about it all night, and I realized how badly she would feel and I too
if I didn't do the right thing by her--because she had said three or
four times that if I didn't she would kill herself. And I had made up
my mind that morning that whatever else happened that day, I was going
to straighten the whole thing out."

"This was at Grass Lake. You were still in the hotel on Thursday
morning?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you were going to tell her just what?"

"Well, that I knew that I hadn't treated her quite right and that I was
sorry--besides, that her offer was fair enough, and that if after what
I was going to tell her she still wanted me, I would go away with her
and marry her. But that I had to tell her first the real reason for my
changing as I had--that I had been and still was in love with another
girl and that I couldn't help it--that probably whether I married her
or not----"

"Miss Alden you mean?"

"Yes, sir--that I would always go on loving this other girl, because I
just couldn't get her out of my mind. But just the same, if that didn't
make any difference to her, that I would marry her even if I couldn't
love her any more as I once did. That was all."

"But what about Miss X?"

"Well, I had thought about her too, but I thought she was better off
and could stand it easier. Besides, I thought perhaps Roberta would let
me go and we could just go on being friends and I would help her all I
could."

"Had you decided just where you would marry her?"

"No, sir. But I knew there were plenty of towns below Big Bittern and
Grass Lake."

"But were you going to do that without one single word to Miss X
beforehand?"

"Well, no, sir--not exactly. I figured that if Roberta wouldn't let
me off but didn't mind my leaving her for a few days, I would go down
to where Miss X lived and tell her, and then come back. But if she
objected to that, why then I was going to write Miss X a letter and
explain how it was and then go on and get married to Roberta."

"I see. But, Clyde, among other bits of testimony here, there was that
letter found in Miss Alden's coat pocket--the one written on Grass Lake
Inn stationery and addressed to her mother, in which she told her that
she was about to be married. Had you already told her up there at Grass
Lake that morning that you were going to marry her for sure?"

"No, sir. Not exactly, but I did say on getting up that day that it was
the deciding day for us and that she was going to be able to decide
for herself whether she wanted me to marry her or not."

"Oh, I see. So that's it," smiled Jephson, as though greatly relieved.
(And Mason and Newcomb and Burleigh and State Senator Redmond all
listening with the profoundest attention, now exclaimed, _sotto voce_
and almost in unison: "Of all the bunk!")

"Well, now we come to the trip itself. You have heard the testimony
here and the dark motive and plotting that has been attributed to every
move in connection with it. Now I want you to tell it in your own way.
It has been testified here that you took both bags--yours and hers--up
there with you but that you left hers at Gun Lodge when you got there
and took your own out on the lake in that boat with you. Now just why
did you do that? Please speak so that all of the jurymen can hear you."

"Well, the reason for that was," and here once more his throat became
so dry that he could scarcely speak, "we didn't know whether we could
get any lunch at Big Bittern, so we decided to take some things along
with us from Grass Lake. Her bag was packed full of things, but there
was room in mine. Besides, it had my camera with the tripod outside. So
I decided to leave hers and take mine."

"_You_ decided?"

"Well, I asked her what she thought and she said she thought that was
best."

"Where was it you asked her that?"

"On the train coming down."

"And did you know then that you were coming back to Gun Lodge after
going out on the lake?"

"Yes, sir, I did. We had to. There was no other road. They told us that
at Grass Lake."

"And in riding over to Big Bittern--do you recall the testimony of the
driver who drove you over--that you were 'very nervous' and that you
asked him whether there were many people over there that day?"

"I recall it, yes, sir, but I wasn't nervous at all. I may have asked
about the people, but I can't see anything wrong with that. It seems to
me that any one might ask that."

"And so it seems to me," echoed Jephson. "Then what happened after you
registered at Big Bittern Inn and got into that boat and went out on
the lake with Miss Alden? Were you or she especially preoccupied or
nervous or in any state different from that of any ordinary person who
goes out on a lake to row? Were you particularly happy or particularly
gloomy, or what?"

"Well, I don't think I was especially gloomy--no, sir. I was thinking
of all I was going to tell her, of course, and of what was before me
either way she decided. I wasn't exactly gay, I guess, but I thought it
would be all right whichever way things went. I had decided that I was
willing to marry her."

"And how about her? Was she quite cheerful?"

"Well--yes, sir. She seemed to feel much happier for some reason."

"And what did you talk about?"

"Oh, about the lake first--how beautiful it was and where we would have
our lunch when we were ready for it. And then we rowed along the west
shore looking for water lilies. She was so happy that I hated to bring
up anything just then, and so we just kept on rowing until about two,
when we stopped for lunch."

"Just where was that? Just get up and trace on the map with that
pointer there just where you did go and how long you stopped and for
what."

And so Clyde, pointer in hand and standing before the large map of the
lake and region which particularly concerned this tragedy, now tracing
in detail the long row along the shore, a group of trees, which, after
having lunch, they had rowed to see--a beautiful bed of water lilies
which they had lingered over--each point at which they had stopped,
until reaching Moon Cove at about five in the afternoon, they had been
so entranced by its beauty that they had merely sat and gazed, as he
said. Afterwards, in order that he might take some pictures, they had
gone ashore in the woods nearby--he all the while preparing himself to
tell Roberta of Miss X and ask her for her final decision. And then
having left the bag on shore for a few moments while they rowed out
and took some snapshots in the boat, they had drifted in the calm of
the water and the stillness and beauty until finally he had gathered
sufficient courage to tell her what was in his heart. And at first,
as he now said, Roberta seemed greatly startled and depressed and
began crying a little, saying that perhaps it was best for her not
to live any longer--she felt so miserable. But, afterwards, when he
had impressed on her the fact that he was really sorry and perfectly
willing to make amends, she had suddenly changed and begun to grow
more cheerful, and then of a sudden, in a burst of tenderness and
gratefulness--he could not say exactly--she had jumped up and tried to
come to him. Her arms were outstretched and she moved as if to throw
herself at his feet or into his lap. But just then, her foot, or her
dress, had caught and she had stumbled. And he--camera in hand--(a last
minute decision or legal precaution on the part of Jephson)--had risen
instinctively to try to catch her and stop her fall. Perhaps--he would
not be able to say here--her face or hand had struck the camera. At any
rate, the next moment, before he quite understood how it all happened,
and without time for thought or action on his part or hers, both were
in the water and the boat, which had overturned, seemed to have struck
Roberta, for she seemed to be stunned.

"I called to her to try to get to the boat--it was moving away--to take
hold of it, but she didn't seem to hear me or understand what I meant.
I was afraid to go too near her at first because she was striking out
in every direction--and before I could swim ten strokes forward her
head had gone down once and come up and then gone down again for a
second time. By then the boat had floated all of thirty or forty feet
away and I knew that I couldn't get her into that. And then I decided
that if I wanted to save myself I had better swim ashore."

And once there, as he now narrated, it suddenly occurred to him how
peculiar and suspicious were all the circumstances surrounding his
present position. He suddenly realized, as he now said, how bad the
whole thing looked from the beginning. The false registering. The
fact his bag was there--hers not. Besides, to return now meant that
he would have to explain and it would become generally known--and
everything connected with his life would go--Miss X, his work, his
social position--all--whereas, if he said nothing (and here it was,
and for the first time, as he now swore, that this thought occurred to
him), it might be assumed that he too had drowned. In view of this fact
and that any physical help he might now give her would not restore her
to life, and that acknowledgment would mean only trouble for him and
shame for her, he decided to say nothing. And so, to remove all traces,
he had taken off his clothes and wrung them out and wrapped them for
packing as best he could. Next, having left the tripod on shore with
his bag, he decided to hide that, and did. His first straw hat, the
one without the lining (but about which absent lining he now declared
he knew nothing), had been lost with the overturning of the boat, and
so now he had put on the extra one he had with him, although he also
had a cap which he might have worn. (He usually carried an extra hat
on a trip because so often, it seemed, something happened to one.)
Then he had ventured to walk south through the woods toward a railroad
which he thought cut through the woods in that direction. He had not
known of any automobile road through there then, and as for making for
the Cranstons' so directly, he confessed quite simply that he would
naturally have gone there. They were his friends and he wanted to get
off somewhere where he could think about this terrible thing that had
descended upon him so suddenly out of a clear sky.

And then having testified to so much--and no more appearing to occur
either to Jephson or himself--the former after a pause now turned and
said, most distinctly and yet somehow quietly:

"Now, Clyde, you have taken a solemn oath before this jury, this judge,
all these people here, and above all your God, to tell the truth, the
whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You realize what that means,
don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"You swear before God that you did not strike Roberta Alden in that
boat?"

"I swear. I did not."

"Or throw her into that lake?"

"I swear it. I did not."

"Or willfully or willingly in any way attempt to upset that boat or in
any other fashion bring about the death that she suffered?"

"I swear it!" cried Clyde, emphatically and emotionally.

"You swear that it was an accident--unpremeditated and undesigned by
you?"

"I do," lied Clyde, who felt that in fighting for his life he was
telling a part of the truth, for that accident was unpremeditated and
undesigned. It had not been as he had planned and he could swear to
that.

And then Jephson, running one of his large strong hands over his face
and looking blandly and nonchalantly around upon the court and jury,
the while he compressed his thin lips into a long and meaningful line,
announced: "The prosecution may take the witness."




                              CHAPTER XXV


The mood of Mason throughout the entire direct examination was that of
a restless harrier anxious to be off at the heels of its prey--of a
foxhound within the last leap of its kill. A keen and surging desire
to shatter this testimony, to show it to be from start to finish the
tissue of lies that in part at least it was, now animated him. And no
sooner had Jephson concluded than he leaped up and confronted Clyde,
who, seeing him blazing with this desire to undo him, felt as though he
was about to be physically attacked.

"Griffiths, you had that camera in your hand at the time she came
toward you in the boat?"

"Yes, sir."

"She stumbled and fell and you accidentally struck her with it?"

"Yes."

"I don't suppose in your truthful and honest way you remember telling
me there in the woods on the shore of Big Bittern that you never had a
camera?"

"Yes, sir--I remember that."

"And that was a lie, of course?"

"Yes, sir."

"And told with all the fervor and force that you are now telling this
other lie?"

"I'm not lying. I've explained why I said that."

"You've explained why you said that! You've explained why you said
that! And because you lied there you expect to be believed here, do
you?"

Belknap rose to object, but Jephson pulled him down.

"Well, this is the truth, just the same."

"And no power under heaven could make you tell another lie here, of
course--not a strong desire to save yourself from the electric chair?"

Clyde blanched and quivered slightly; he blinked his red, tired
eyelids. "Well, I might, maybe, but not under oath, I don't think."

"You don't think! Oh, I see. Lie all you want wherever you are--and at
any time--and under any circumstances--except when you're on trial for
murder!"

"No, sir. It isn't that. But what I just said is so."

"And you swear on the Bible, do you, that you experienced a change of
heart?"

"Yes, sir."

"That Miss Alden was very sad and that was what moved you to experience
this change of heart?"

"Yes, sir. That's how it was."

"Well, now, Griffiths, when she was up there in the country and waiting
for you--she wrote you all those letters there, did she not?"

"Yes, sir."

"You received one on an average of every two days, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you knew she was lonely and miserable there, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir--but then I've explained----"

"Oh, you've explained! You mean your lawyers have explained it for you!
Didn't they coach you day after day in that jail over there as to how
you were to answer when the time came?"

"No, sir, they didn't!" replied Clyde, defiantly, catching Jephson's
eye at this moment.

"Well, then when I asked you up there at Bear Lake how it was that
this girl met her death--why didn't you tell me then and save all this
trouble and suspicion and investigation? Don't you think the public
would have listened more kindly and believingly there than it will now
after you've taken five long months to think it all out with the help
of two lawyers?"

"But I didn't think it out with any lawyers," persisted Clyde, still
looking at Jephson, who was supporting him with all his mental
strength. "I've just explained why I did that."

"You've explained! You've explained!" roared Mason, almost beside
himself with the knowledge that this false explanation was sufficient
of a shield or barrier for Clyde to hide behind whenever he found
himself being too hard pressed--the little rat! And so now he fairly
quivered with baffled rage as he proceeded.

"And before you went up--while she was writing them to you--you
considered them sad, didn't you?"

"Why, yes, sir. That is"--he hesitated incautiously--"some parts of
them anyhow."

"Oh, I see--only some parts of them now. I thought you just said you
considered them sad."

"Well, I do."

"And did."

"Yes, sir--and did." But Clyde's eyes were beginning to wander
nervously in the direction of Jephson, who was fixing him as with a
beam of light.

"Remember her writing you this?" And here Mason picked up and opened
one of the letters and began reading: "Clyde--I shall certainly die,
dear, if you don't come. I am so much alone. I am nearly crazy now.
I wish I could go away and never return or trouble you any more. But
if you would only telephone me, even so much as once every other day,
since you won't write. And when I need you and a word of encouragement
so." Mason's voice was mellow. It was sad. One could feel, as he spoke,
the wave of passing pity that was moving as sound and color not only
through him but through every spectator in the high, narrow courtroom.
"Does that seem at all sad to you?"

"Yes, sir, it does."

"Did it then?"

"Yes, sir, it did."

"You knew it was sincere, didn't you?" snarled Mason.

"Yes, sir. I did."

"Then why didn't a little of that pity that you claim moved you so
deeply out there in the center of Big Bittern move you down there in
Lycurgus to pick up the telephone there in Mrs. Peyton's house where
you were and reassure that lonely girl by so much as a word that you
were coming? Was it because your pity for her then wasn't as great as
it was after she wrote you that threatening letter? Or was it because
you had a plot and you were afraid that too much telephoning to her
might attract attention? How was it that you had so much pity all of a
sudden up at Big Bittern, but none at all down there at Lycurgus? Is it
something you can turn on and off like a faucet?"

"I never said I had none at all," replied Clyde, defiantly, having just
received an eye-flash from Jephson.

"Well, you left her to wait until she had to threaten you because of
her own terror and misery."

"Well, I've admitted that I didn't treat her right."

"Ha, ha! Right! _Right!_ And because of that admission, and in face of
all the other testimony we've had here, your own included, you expect
to walk out of here a free man, do you?"

Belknap was not to be restrained any longer. His objection came--and
with bitter vehemence he addressed the Judge: "This is infamous, your
Honor. Is the district attorney to be allowed to make a speech with
every question?"

"I heard no objection," countered the court. "The district attorney
will frame his questions properly."

Mason took the rebuke lightly and turned again to Clyde. "In that boat
there in the center of Big Bittern you have testified that you had in
your hand that camera that you once denied owning?"

"Yes, sir."

"And she was in the stern of the boat?"

"Yes, sir."

"Bring in that boat, will you, Burton?" he called to Burleigh at
this point, and forthwith four deputies from the district attorney's
office retired through a west door behind the judge's rostrum and soon
returned carrying the identical boat in which Clyde and Roberta had
sat, and put it down before the jury. And as they did so Clyde chilled
and stared. The identical boat! He blinked and quivered as the audience
stirred, stared and strained, an audible wave of curiosity and interest
passing over the entire room. And then Mason, taking the camera and
shaking it up and down, exclaimed: "Well, here you are now, Griffiths!
The camera you never owned. Step down here into this boat and take this
camera here and show the jury just where you sat, and where Miss Alden
sat. And exactly, if you can, how and where it was that you struck Miss
Alden and where and about how she fell."

"Object!" declared Belknap.

A long and wearisome legal argument, finally terminating in the judge
allowing this type of testimony to be continued for a while at least.
And at the conclusion of it, Clyde declaring: "I didn't intentionally
strike her with it though"--to which Mason replied: "Yes, we heard you
testify that way"--then Clyde stepping down and after being directed
here and there finally stepping into the boat at the middle seat and
seating himself while three men held it straight.

"And now, Newcomb--I want you to come here and sit wherever Miss Alden
was supposed to sit and take any position which he describes as having
been taken by her."

"Yes, sir," said Newcomb, coming forward and seating himself while
Clyde vainly sought to catch Jephson's eye but could not since his own
back was partially turned from him.

"And now, Griffiths," went on Mason, "just you show Mr. Newcomb here
how Miss Alden arose and came toward you. Direct him."

And then Clyde, feeling weak and false and hated, arising again and
in a nervous and angular way--the eerie strangeness of all this
affecting him to the point of unbelievable awkwardness--attempting
to show Newcomb just how Roberta had gotten up and half walked and
half crawled, then had stumbled and fallen. And after that, with the
camera in his hand, attempting to show as nearly as he could recall,
how unconsciously his arm had shot out and he had struck Roberta, he
scarcely knowing where--on the chin and cheek maybe, he was not sure,
but not intentionally, of course, and not with sufficient force really
to injure her, he thought at the time. But just here a long wrangle
between Belknap and Mason as to the competency of such testimony since
Clyde declared that he could not remember clearly--but Oberwaltzer
finally allowing the testimony on the ground that it would show,
relatively, whether a light or heavy push or blow was required in order
to upset any one who might be "lightly" or "loosely" poised.

"But how in Heaven's name are these antics as here demonstrated on a
man of Mr. Newcomb's build to show what would follow in the case of a
girl of the size and weight of Miss Alden?" persisted Belknap.

"Well, then we'll put a girl of the size and weight of Miss Alden
in here." And at once calling for Zillah Sanders and putting her in
Newcomb's place. But Belknap none-the-less proceeding with:

"And what of that? The conditions aren't the same. This boat isn't on
the water. No two people are going to be alike in their resistance or
their physical responses to accidental blows."

"Then you refuse to allow this demonstration to be made?" (This was
from Mason, turning and cynically inquiring.)

"Oh, make it if you choose. It doesn't mean anything though, as anybody
can see," persisted Belknap, suggestively.

And so Clyde, under directions from Mason, now pushing at Zillah,
"about as hard," (he thought) as he had accidentally pushed at Roberta.
And she falling back a little--not much--but in so doing being able
to lay a hand on each side of the boat and so save herself. And the
jury, in spite of Belknap's thought that his contentions would have
counteracted all this, gathering the impression that Clyde, on account
of his guilt and fear of death, was probably attempting to conjure
something that had been much more viciously executed, to be sure. For
had not the doctors sworn to the probable force of this and another
blow on the top of the head? And had not Burton Burleigh testified to
having discovered a hair in the camera? And how about the cry that
woman had heard? How about that?

But with that particular incident the court was adjourned for this day.

On the following morning at the sound of the gavel, there was Mason, as
fresh and vigorous and vicious as ever. And Clyde, after a miserable
night in his cell and much bolstering by Jephson and Belknap,
determined to be as cool and insistent and innocent-appearing as he
could be, but with no real heart for the job, so convinced was he that
local sentiment in its entirety was against him--that he was believed
to be guilty. And with Mason beginning most savagely and bitterly:

"You still insist that you experienced a change of heart, do you,
Griffiths?"

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Ever hear of people being resuscitated after they have apparently
drowned?"

"I don't quite understand."

"You know, of course, that people who are supposed to be drowned,
who go down for the last time and don't come up, are occasionally
gotten out of the water and revived, brought back to life by first-aid
methods--working their arms and rolling them over a log or a barrel.
You've heard of that, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir, I think I have. I've heard of people being brought back to
life after they're supposed to be drowned, but I don't think I ever
heard just how."

"You never did?"

"No, sir."

"Or how long they could stay under water and still be revived?"

"No, sir. I never did."

"Never heard, for instance, that a person who had been in the water as
long as fifteen minutes might still be brought to?"

"No, sir."

"So it never occurred to you after you swam to shore yourself that you
might still call for aid and so save her life even then?"

"No, sir, it didn't occur to me. I thought she was dead by then."

"I see. But when she was still alive out there in the water--how about
that? You're a pretty good swimmer, aren't you?"

"Yes, sir, I swim fairly well."

"Well enough, for instance, to save yourself by swimming over five
hundred feet with your shoes and clothes on. Isn't that so?"

"Well, I did swim that distance then--yes, sir."

"Yes, you did indeed--and pretty good for a fellow who couldn't swim
thirty-five feet to an overturned boat, I'll say," concluded Mason.

Here Jephson waved aside Belknap's suggestion that he move to have this
comment stricken out.

Clyde was now dragged over his various boating and swimming experiences
and made to tell how many times he had gone out on lakes in craft as
dangerous as canoes and had never had an accident.

"The first time you took Roberta out on Crum Lake was in a canoe,
wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"But you had no accident then?"

"No, sir."

"You cared for her then very much, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"But the day she was drowned in Big Bittern, in this solid,
round-bottomed row boat, you didn't care for her any more."

"Well, I've said how I felt then."

"And of course there couldn't be any relation between the fact that on
Crum Lake you cared for her but on Big Bittern----"

"I said how I felt then."

"But you wanted to get rid of her just the same, didn't you? The moment
she was dead to run away to that other girl. You don't deny that, do
you?"

"I've explained why I did that," reiterated Clyde.

"Explained! Explained! And you expect any fair-minded, decent,
intelligent person to believe that explanation, do you?" Mason was
fairly beside himself with rage and Clyde did not venture to comment
as to that. The Judge anticipated Jephson's objection to this and
bellowed, "Objection sustained." But Mason went right on. "You couldn't
have been just a little careless, could you, Griffiths, in the handling
of the boat and upset it yourself, say?" He drew near and leered.

"No, sir, I wasn't careless. It was an accident that I couldn't avoid."
Clyde was quite cool, though pale and tired.

"An accident. Like that other accident out there in Kansas City, for
instance. You're rather familiar with accidents of that kind, aren't
you, Griffiths?" queried Mason sneeringly and slowly.

"I've explained how that happened," replied Clyde nervously.

"You're rather familiar with accidents that result in death to girls,
aren't you? Do you always run away when one of them dies?"

"Object," yelled Belknap, leaping to his feet.

"Objection sustained," called Oberwaltzer sharply. "There is nothing
before this court concerning any other accident. The prosecution will
confine itself more closely to the case in hand."

"Griffiths," went on Mason, pleased with the way he had made a return
to Jephson for his apology for the Kansas City accident, "when that
boat upset after that accidental blow of yours and you and Miss Alden
fell into the water--how far apart were you?"

"Well, I didn't notice just then."

"Pretty close, weren't you? Not much more than a foot or two,
surely--the way you stood there in the boat?"

"Well, I didn't notice. Maybe that, yes, sir."

"Close enough to have grabbed her and hung on to her if you had wanted
to, weren't you? That's what you jumped up for, wasn't it, when she
started to fall out?"

"Yes, that's what I jumped up for," replied Clyde heavily, "but I
wasn't close enough to grab her. I know I went right under, and when I
came up she was some little distance away."

"Well, how far exactly? As far as from here to this end of the jury box
or that end, or half way, or what?"

"Well, I say I didn't notice, quite. About as far from here to that
end, I guess," he lied, stretching the distance by at least eight feet.

"Not really!" exclaimed Mason, pretending to evince astonishment. "This
boat here turns over, you both fall in the water close together, and
when you come up you and she are nearly twenty feet apart. Don't you
think your memory is getting a little the best of you there?"

"Well, that's the way it looked to me when I came up."

"Well, now, after that boat turned over and you both came up, where
were you in relation to _it_? Here is the boat now and where were you
out there in the audience, as to distance, I mean?"

"Well, as I say, I didn't exactly notice when I first came up,"
returned Clyde, looking nervously and dubiously at the space before
him. Most certainly a trap was being prepared for him. "About as far as
from here to that railing beyond your table, I guess."

"About thirty to thirty-five feet then," suggested Mason, slyly and
hopefully.

"Yes, sir. About that maybe. I couldn't be quite sure."

"And now with you over there and the boat here, where was Miss Alden at
that time?"

And Clyde now sensed that Mason must have some geometric or mathematic
scheme in mind whereby he proposed to establish his guilt. And at
once he was on his guard, and looking in the direction of Jephson.
At the same time he could not see how he was to put Roberta too far
away either. He had said she couldn't swim. Wouldn't she be nearer
the boat than he was? Most certainly. He leaped foolishly--wildly--at
the thought that it might be best to say that she was about half
that distance--not more, very likely. And said so. And at once Mason
proceeded with:

"Well, then she was not more than fifteen feet or so from you or the
boat."

"No, sir, maybe not. I guess not."

"Well then, do you mean to say that you couldn't have swum that little
distance and buoyed her up until you could reach the boat just fifteen
feet beyond her?"

"Well, as I say, I was a little dazed when I came up and she was
striking about and screaming so."

"But there was that boat--not more than thirty-five feet away,
according to your own story--and a mighty long way for a boat to move
in that time, I'll say. And do you mean to say that when you could swim
five hundred feet to shore afterwards that you couldn't have swum to
that boat and pushed it to her in time for her to save herself? She was
struggling to keep herself up, wasn't she?"

"Yes, sir. But I was rattled at first," pleaded Clyde, gloomily,
conscious of the eyes of all the jurors and all the spectators fixed
upon his face, "and ... and ..." (because of the general strain of the
suspicion and incredulity now focused as a great force upon him, his
nerve was all but failing him, and he was hesitating and stumbling) ...
"I didn't think quite quick enough I guess, what to do. Besides I was
afraid if I went near her ..."

"I know. A mental and moral coward," sneered Mason. "Besides very slow
to think when it's to your advantage to be slow and swift when it's to
your advantage to be swift. Is that it?"

"No, sir."

"Well, then, if it isn't, just tell me this, Griffiths, why was it,
after you got out of the water a few moments later you had sufficient
presence of mind to stop and bury that tripod before starting through
the woods, whereas, when it came to rescuing her you got rattled
and couldn't do a thing? How was it that you could get so calm and
calculating the moment you set your foot on land? What can you say to
that?"

"Well ... a ... I told you that afterwards I realized that there was
nothing else to do."

"Yes, we know all about that. But doesn't it occur to you that it takes
a pretty cool head after so much panic in the water to stop at a moment
like that and take such a precaution as that--burying that tripod? How
was it that you could think so well of that and not think anything
about the boat a few moments before?"

"Well ... but ..."

"You didn't want her to live, in spite of your alleged change of heart!
Isn't that it?" yelled Mason. "Isn't that the black, sad truth? She was
drowning, as you wanted her to drown, and you just let her drown! Isn't
that so?"

He was fairly trembling as he shouted this, and Clyde, the actual boat
before him and Roberta's eyes and cries as she sank coming back to him
with all their pathetic and horrible force, now shrank and cowered in
his seat--the closeness of Mason's interpretation of what had really
happened terrifying him. For never, even to Jephson and Belknap, had he
admitted that when Roberta was in the water he had not wished to save
her. Changelessly and secretively he had insisted he had wanted to but
that it had all happened so quickly, and he was so dazed and frightened
by her cries and movements, that he had not been able to do anything
before she was gone.

"I ... I wanted to save her," he mumbled, his face quite gray, "but ...
but ... as I said, I was dazed ... and ... and ..."

"Don't you know that you're lying!" shouted Mason, leaning still
closer, his stout arms aloft, his disfigured face glowering and
scowling like some avenging nemesis or fury of gargoyle design--"that
you deliberately and with cold-hearted cunning allowed that poor,
tortured girl to die there when you might have rescued her as easily
as you could have swum fifty of those five hundred feet you did swim
in order to save yourself?" For by now he was convinced that he knew
just how Clyde had actually slain Roberta, something in his manner and
mood convincing him, and he was determined to drag it out of him if he
could. And although Belknap was instantly on his feet with a protest
that his client was being unfairly prejudiced in the eyes of the jury
and that he was really entitled to--and now demanded--a mistrial--which
complaint Justice Oberwaltzer eventually overruled--still Clyde had
time to reply, but most meekly and feebly: "No! No! I didn't. I wanted
to save her if I could." Yet his whole manner, as each and every juror
noted, was that of one who was not really telling the truth, who was
really all of the mental and moral coward that Belknap had insisted he
was--but worse yet, really guilty of Roberta's death. For after all,
asked each juror of himself as he listened, why couldn't he have saved
her if he was strong enough to swim to shore afterwards--or at least
have swum to and secured the boat and helped her to take hold of it?

"She only weighed a hundred pounds, didn't she?" went on Mason
feverishly.

"Yes, I think so."

"And you--what did you weigh at the time?"

"About a hundred and forty," replied Clyde.

"And a hundred and forty pound man," sneered Mason, turning to the
jury, "is afraid to go near a weak, sick, hundred-pound little girl who
is drowning, for fear she will cling to him and drag him under! And a
perfectly good boat, strong enough to hold three or four up, within
fifteen or twenty feet! How's that?"

And to emphasize it and let it sink in, he now paused, and took from
his pocket a large white handkerchief, and after wiping his neck and
face and wrists--since they were quite damp from his emotional and
physical efforts--turned to Burton Burleigh and called: "You might as
well have this boat taken out of here, Burton. We're not going to need
it for a little while anyhow." And forthwith the four deputies carried
it out.

And then, having recovered his poise, he once more turned to Clyde and
began with: "Griffiths, you knew the color and feel of Roberta Alden's
hair pretty well, didn't you? You were intimate enough with her,
weren't you?"

"I know the color of it or I think I do," replied Clyde wincing--an
anguished chill at the thought of it affecting him almost observably.

"And the feel of it, too, didn't you?" persisted Mason. "In those very
loving days of yours before Miss X came along--you must have touched it
often enough."

"I don't know whether I did or not," replied Clyde, catching a glance
from Jephson.

"Well, roughly. You must know whether it was coarse or fine--silky or
coarse. You know that, don't you?"

"It was silky, yes."

"Well, here's a lock of it," he now added more to torture Clyde than
anything else--to wear him down nervously--and going to his table
where was an envelope and from it extracting a long lock of light brown
hair. "Don't that look like her hair?" And now he shoved it forward at
Clyde who shocked and troubled withdrew from it as from some unclean
or dangerous thing--yet a moment after sought to recover himself--the
watchful eyes of the jury having noted all. "Oh, don't be afraid,"
persisted Mason, sardonically. "It's only your dead love's hair."

And shocked by the comment--and noting the curious eyes of the jury,
Clyde took it in his hand. "That looks and feels like her hair, doesn't
it?" went on Mason.

"Well, it looks like it anyhow," returned Clyde shakily.

"And now here," continued Mason, stepping quickly to the table and
returning with the camera in which between the lid and the taking
mechanism were caught the two threads of Roberta's hair put there by
Burleigh, and then holding it out to him. "Just take this camera. It's
yours even though you did swear that it wasn't--and look at those two
hairs there. See them?" And he poked the camera at Clyde as though he
might strike him with it. "They were caught in there--presumably--at
the time you struck her so lightly that it made all those wounds on her
face. Can't you tell the jury whether those hairs are hers or not?"

"I can't say," replied Clyde most weakly.

"What's that? Speak up. Don't be so much of a moral and mental coward.
Are they or are they not?"

"I can't say," repeated Clyde--but not even looking at them.

"Look at them. Look at them. Compare them with these others. We know
these are hers. And you know that these in this camera are, don't you?
Don't be so squeamish. You've often touched her hair in real life.
She's dead. They won't bite you. Are these two hairs--or are they
not--the same as these other hairs here--which we know are hers--the
same color--same feel--all? Look! Answer! Are they or are they not?"

But Clyde, under such pressure and in spite of Belknap, being compelled
to look and then feel them too. Yet cautiously replying, "I wouldn't be
able to say. They look and feel a little alike, but I can't tell."

"Oh, can't you? And even when you know that when you struck her that
brutal vicious blow with that camera--these two hairs caught there and
held."

"But I didn't strike her any vicious blow," insisted Clyde, now
observing Jephson--"and I can't say." He was saying to himself that he
would not allow himself to be bullied in this way by this man--yet,
at the same time, feeling very weak and sick. And Mason, triumphant
because of the psychologic effect, if nothing more, returning the
camera and lock to the table and remarking, "Well, it's been amply
testified to that those two hairs were in that camera when found in the
water. And you yourself swear that it was last in your hand before it
reached the water."

He turned to think of something else--some new point with which to rack
Clyde and now began once more:

"Griffiths, in regard to that trip south through the woods, what time
was it when you got to Three Mile Bay?"

"About four in the morning, I think--just before dawn."

"And what did you do between then and the time that boat down there
left?"

"Oh, I walked around."

"In Three Mile Bay?"

"No, sir--just outside of it."

"In the woods, I suppose, waiting for the town to wake up so you
wouldn't look so much out of place. Was that it?"

"Well, I waited until after the sun came up. Besides I was tired and I
sat down and rested for a while."

"Did you sleep well and did you have pleasant dreams?"

"I was tired and I slept a little--yes."

"And how was it you knew so much about the boat and the time and all
about Three Mile Bay? Hadn't you familiarized yourself with this data
beforehand?"

"Well, everybody knows about the boat from Sharon to Three Mile Bay
around there."

"Oh, do they? Any other reason?"

"Well, in looking for a place to get married, both of us saw it,"
returned Clyde, shrewdly, "but we didn't see that any train went to it.
Only to Sharon."

"But you did notice that it was south of Big Bittern?"

"Why, yes--I guess I did," replied Clyde.

"And that that road west of Gun Lodge led south toward it around the
lower edge of Big Bittern?"

"Well, I noticed after I got up there that there was a road of some
kind or a trail anyhow--but I didn't think of it as a regular road."

"I see. How was it then that when you met those three men in the woods
you were able to ask them how far it was to Three Mile Bay?"

"I didn't ask 'em that," replied Clyde, as he had been instructed by
Jephson to say. "I asked 'em if they knew any road to Three Mile Bay,
and how far it was. I didn't know whether that was the road or not."

"Well, that wasn't how they testified here."

"Well, I don't care what they testified to, that's what I asked 'em
just the same."

"It seems to me that according to you all the witnesses are liars and
you are the only truthful one in the bunch.... Isn't that it? But, when
you reached Three Mile Bay, did you stop to eat? You must have been
hungry, weren't you?"

"No, I wasn't hungry," replied Clyde, simply.

"You wanted to get away from that place as quickly as possible,
wasn't that it? You were afraid that those three men might go up to
Big Bittern and having heard about Miss Alden tell about having seen
you--wasn't that it?"

"No, that wasn't it. But I didn't want to stay around there. I've said
why."

"I see. But after you got down to Sharon where you felt a little more
safe--a little further away, you didn't lose any time in eating, did
you? It tasted pretty good all right down there, didn't it?"

"Oh, I don't know about that. I had a cup of coffee and a sandwich."

"And a piece of pie, too, as we've already proved here," added Mason.
"And after that you joined the crowd coming up from the depot as though
you had just come up from Albany, as you afterwards told everybody.
Wasn't that it?"

"Yes, that was it."

"Well, now for a really innocent man who only so recently experienced
a kindly change of heart, don't you think you were taking an awful
lot of precaution? Hiding away like that and waiting in the dark and
pretending that you had just come up from Albany."

"I've explained all that," persisted Clyde.

Mason's next tack was to hold Clyde up to shame for having been
willing, in the face of all she had done for him, to register Roberta
in three different hotel registers as the unhallowed consort of
presumably three different men in three different days.

"Why didn't you take separate rooms?"

"Well, she didn't want it that way. She wanted to be with me. Besides I
didn't have any too much money."

"Even so, how could you have so little respect for her there and then
be so deeply concerned about her reputation after she was dead that you
had to run away and keep the secret of her death all to yourself, in
order, as you say, to protect her name and reputation?"

"Your Honor," interjected Belknap, "this isn't a question. It's an
oration."

"I withdraw the question," countered Mason, and then went on. "Do
you admit, by the way, that you are a mental and moral coward,
Griffiths--do you?"

"No, sir. I don't."

"You do not?"

"No, sir."

"Then when you lie, and swear to it, you are just the same as any other
person who is not a mental and moral coward, and deserving of all the
contempt and punishment due a person who is a perjurer and a false
witness. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir. I suppose so."

"Well, if you are not a mental and moral coward, how can you justify
your leaving that girl in that lake--after as you say you accidentally
struck her and when you knew how her parents would soon be suffering
because of her loss--and not say one word to anybody--just walk
off--and hide the tripod and your suit and sneak away like an ordinary
murderer? Wouldn't you think that that was the conduct of a man who had
plotted and executed murder and was trying to get away with it--if you
had heard of it about some one else? Or would you think it was just the
sly, crooked trick of a man who was only a mental and moral coward and
who was trying to get away from the blame for the accidental death of
a girl whom he had seduced and news of which might interfere with his
prosperity? Which?"

"Well, I didn't kill her, just the same," insisted Clyde.

"Answer the question!" thundered Mason.

"I ask the court to instruct the witness that he need not answer such
a question," put in Jephson, rising and fixing first Clyde and then
Oberwaltzer with his eye. "It is purely an argumentative one and has no
real bearing on the facts in this case."

"I so instruct," replied Oberwaltzer. "The witness need not answer."
Whereupon Clyde merely stared, greatly heartened by this unexpected aid.

"Well, to go on," proceeded Mason, now more nettled and annoyed than
ever by this watchful effort on the part of Belknap and Jephson to
break the force and significance of his each and every attack, and all
the more determined not to be outdone--"you say you didn't intend to
marry her if you could help it, before you went up there?"

"Yes, sir."

"That she wanted you to but you hadn't made up your mind?"

"Yes."

"Well, do you recall the cook-book and the salt and pepper shakers and
the spoons and knives and so on that she put in her bag?"

"Yes, sir. I do."

"What do you suppose she had in mind when she left Biltz--with those
things in her trunk--that she was going out to live in some hall
bedroom somewhere, unmarried, while you came to see her once a week or
once a month?"

Before Belknap could object, Clyde shot back the proper answer.

"I can't say what she had in her mind about that."

"You couldn't possibly have told her over the telephone there at Biltz,
for instance--after she wrote you that if you didn't come for her she
was coming to Lycurgus--that you would marry her?"

"No, sir--I didn't."

"You weren't mental and moral coward enough to be bullied into anything
like that, were you?"

"I never said I was a mental and moral coward."

"But you weren't to be bullied by a girl you had seduced?"

"Well, I couldn't feel then that I ought to marry her."

"You didn't think she'd make as good a match as Miss X?"

"I didn't think I ought to marry her if I didn't love her any more."

"Not even to save her honor--and your own decency?"

"Well, I didn't think we could be happy together then."

"That was before your great change of heart, I suppose."

"It was before we went to Utica, yes."

"And while you were still so enraptured with Miss X?"

"I was in love with Miss X--yes."

"Do you recall, in one of those letters to you that you never answered"
(and here Mason proceeded to take up and read from one of the first
seven letters), "her writing this to you; 'I feel upset and uncertain
about everything although I try not to feel so--now that we have our
plan and you are going to come for me as you said.' Now just what was
she referring to there when she wrote--'now that we have our plan'?"

"I don't know unless it was that I was coming to get her and take her
away somewhere temporarily."

"Not to marry her, of course."

"No, I hadn't said so."

"But right after that in this same letter she says: 'On the way up,
instead of coming straight home, I decided to stop at Homer to see my
sister and brother-in-law, since I am not sure now when I'll see them
again, and I want so much that they shall see me respectable or never
at all any more.' Now just what do you suppose she meant by that word
'respectable'? Living somewhere in secret and unmarried and having a
child while you sent her a little money, and then coming back maybe and
posing as single and innocent or married and her husband dead--or what?
Don't you suppose she saw herself married to you, for a time at least,
and the child given a name? That 'plan' she mentions couldn't have
contemplated anything less than that, could it?"

"Well, maybe as she saw it it couldn't," evaded Clyde. "But I never
said I would marry her."

"Well, well--we'll let that rest a minute," went on Mason doggedly.
"But now take this," and here he began reading from the tenth letter:
"'It won't make any difference to you about your coming a few days
sooner than you intended, will it, dear? Even if we have got to get
along on a little less, I know we can, for the time I will be with you
anyhow, probably no more than six or eight months at the most. I agreed
to let you go by then, you know, if you want to. I can be very saving
and economical. It can't be any other way now, Clyde, although for your
own sake I wish it could.' What do you suppose all that means--'saving
and economical'--and not letting you go until after eight months?
Living in a hall bedroom and you coming to see her once a week? Or
hadn't you really agreed to go away with her and marry her, as she
seems to think here?"

"I don't know unless she thought she could make me, maybe," replied
Clyde, the while various backwoodsmen and farmers and jurors actually
sniffed and sneered, so infuriated were they by the phrase "make me"
which Clyde had scarcely noticed. "I never agreed to."

"Unless she could make you. So that was the way you felt about it, was
it, Griffiths?"

"Yes, sir."

"You'd swear to that as quick as you would to anything else?"

"Well, I have sworn to it."

And Mason as well as Belknap and Jephson and Clyde himself now felt
the strong public contempt and rage that the majority of those present
had for him from the start--now surging and shaking all. It filled the
room. Yet before him were all the hours Mason needed in which he could
pick and choose at random from the mass of testimony as to just what
he would quiz and bedevil and torture Clyde with next. And so now,
looking over his notes--arranged fan-wise on the table by Earl Newcomb
for his convenience--he now began once more with:

"Griffiths, in your testimony here yesterday, through which you
were being led by your counsel, Mr. Jephson" (at this Jephson bowed
sardonically). "You talked about that change of heart that you
experienced after you encountered Roberta Alden once more at Fonda and
Utica back there in July--just as you were starting on this death trip."

Clyde's "yes, sir," came before Belknap could object, but the latter
managed to have "death trip" changed to "trip."

"Before going up there with her you hadn't been liking her as much as
you might have. Wasn't that the way of it?"

"Not as much as I had at one time--no, sir."

"And just how long--from when to when--was the time in which you really
did like her, before you began to dislike her, I mean?"

"Well, from the time I first met her until I met Miss X."

"But not afterwards?"

"Oh, I can't say not entirely afterwards. I cared for her some--a good
deal, I guess--but still not as much as I had. I felt more sorry for
her than anything else, I suppose."

"And now, let's see--that was between December first last, say, and
last April or May--or wasn't it?"

"About that time, I think--yes, sir."

"Well, during that time--December first to April or May first, you were
intimate with her, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Even though you weren't caring for her so much."

"Why--yes, sir," replied Clyde, hesitating slightly, while the rurals
jerked and craned at this introduction of the sex crime.

"And yet at nights, and in spite of the fact that she was alone over
there in her little room--as faithful to you, as you yourself have
testified, as any one could be--you went off to dances, parties,
dinners, and automobile rides, while she sat there."

"Oh, but I wasn't off all the time."

"Oh, weren't you? But you heard the testimony of Tracy and Jill
Trumbull, and Frederick Sells, and Frank Harriet, and Burchard Taylor,
on this particular point, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, were they all liars, or were they telling the truth?"

"Well, they were telling the truth as near as they could remember, I
suppose."

"But they couldn't remember very well--is that it?"

"Well, I wasn't off all the time. Maybe I was gone two or three times a
week--maybe four sometimes--not more."

"And the rest you gave to Miss Alden?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is that what she meant in this letter here?" And here he took up
another letter from the pile of Roberta's letters, and opening it and
holding it before him, read: "'Night after night, almost every night
after that dreadful Christmas day when you left me, I was alone nearly
always.' Is she lying, or isn't she?" snapped Mason fiercely, and
Clyde, sensing the danger of accusing Roberta of lying here, weakly
and shamefacedly replied: "No, she isn't lying. But I did spend some
evenings with her just the same."

"And yet you heard Mrs. Gilpin and her husband testify here that
night after night from December first on Miss Alden was mostly always
alone in her room and that they felt sorry for her and thought it so
unnatural and tried to get her to join them, but she wouldn't. You
heard them testify to that, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"And yet you insist that you were with her some?"

"Yes, sir."

"Yet at the same time loving and seeking the company of Miss X?"

"Yes, sir."

"And trying to get her to marry you?"

"I wanted her to--yes, sir."

"Yet continuing relations with Miss Alden when your other interests
left you any time."

"Well ... yes, sir," once more hesitated Clyde, enormously troubled
by the shabby picture of his character which these disclosures seemed
to conjure, yet somehow feeling that he was not as bad, or at least
had not intended to be, as all this made him appear. Other people
did things like that too, didn't they--those young men in Lycurgus
society--or they had talked as though they did.

"Well, don't you think your learned counsel found a very mild term for
you when they described you as a mental and moral coward?" sneered
Mason--and at the same time from the rear of the long narrow courtroom,
a profound silence seeming to precede, accompany and follow it,--yet
not without an immediate roar of protest from Belknap, came the
solemn, vengeful voice of an irate woodsman: "Why don't they kill the
God-damned bastard and be done with him?"--And at once Oberwaltzer
gaveling for order and ordering the arrest of the offender at the
same time that he ordered all those not seated driven from the
courtroom--which was done. And then the offender arrested and ordered
arraigned on the following morning. And after that, silence, with Mason
once more resuming:

"Griffiths, you say when you left Lycurgus you had no intention of
marrying Roberta Alden unless you could not arrange in any other way."

"Yes, sir. That was my intention at that time."

"And accordingly you were fairly certain of coming back?"

"Yes, sir--I thought I was."

"Then why did you pack everything in your room in your trunk and lock
it?"

"Well ... well ... that is," hesitated Clyde, the charge coming so
quickly and so entirely apart from what had just been spoken of before
that he had scarcely time to collect his wits--"well, you see--I wasn't
absolutely sure. I didn't know but what I might have to go whether I
wanted to or not."

"I see. And so if you had decided up there unexpectedly--as you did--"
(and here Mason smirked on him as much as to say--you think any one
believes that?) "you wouldn't have had time to come back and decently
pack your things and depart?"

"Well, no, sir--that wasn't the reason either."

"Well then, what was the reason?"

"Well, you see," and here for lack of previous thought on this subject
as well as lack of wit to grasp the essentiality of a suitable and
plausible answer quickly, Clyde hesitated--as every one--first and
foremost Belknap and Jephson--noted--and then went on: "Well, you
see--if I had to go away, even for a short time as I thought I might, I
decided that I might need whatever I had in a hurry."

"I see. You're quite sure it wasn't that in case the police discovered
who Clifford Golden or Carl Graham were, that you might wish to leave
quickly?"

"No, sir. It wasn't."

"And so you didn't tell Mrs. Peyton you were giving up the room either,
did you?"

"No, sir."

"In your testimony the other day you said something about not having
money enough to go up there and take Miss Alden away on any temporary
marriage scheme--even one that would last so long as six months."

"Yes, sir."

"When you left Lycurgus to start on the trip, how much did you have?"

"About fifty dollars."

"'About' fifty? Don't you know exactly how much you had?"

"I had fifty dollars--yes, sir."

"And while you were in Utica and Grass Lake and getting down to Sharon
afterwards, how much did you spend?"

"I spent about twenty dollars on the trip, I think."

"Don't you know?"

"Not exactly--no, sir--somewhere around twenty dollars, though."

"Well, now let's see about that exactly if we can," went on Mason, and
here, once more, Clyde began to sense a trap and grew nervous--for
there was all that money given him by Sondra and some of which he had
spent, too. "How much was your fare from Fonda to Utica for yourself?"

"A dollar and a quarter."

"And what did you have to pay for your room at the hotel at Utica for
you and Roberta?"

"That was four dollars."

"And of course you had dinner that night and breakfast the next
morning, which cost you how much?"

"It was about three dollars for both meals."

"Was that all you spent in Utica?" Mason was taking a side glance
occasionally at a slip of paper on which he had figures and notes, but
which Clyde had not noticed.

"Yes, sir."

"How about the straw hat that it has been proved you purchased while
there?"

"Oh, yes, sir, I forgot about that," said Clyde, nervously. "That was
two dollars--yes, sir." He realized that he must be more careful.

"And your fares to Grass Lake were, of course, five dollars. Is that
right?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you hired a boat at Grass Lake. How much was that?"

"That was thirty-five cents an hour."

"And you had it how long?"

"Three hours."

"Making one dollar and five cents."

"Yes, sir."

"And then that night at the hotel, they charged you how much? Five
dollars, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then didn't you buy that lunch that you carried out in that lake
with you up there?"

"Yes, sir. I think that was about sixty cents."

"And how much did it cost you to get to Big Bittern?"

"It was a dollar on the train to Gun Lodge and a dollar on the bus for
the two of us to Big Bittern."

"You know these figures pretty well, I see. Naturally, you would. You
didn't have much money and it was important. And how much was your fare
from Three Mile Bay to Sharon afterwards?"

"My fare was seventy-five cents."

"Did you ever stop to figure this all up exactly?"

"No, sir."

"Well, will you?"

"Well, you know how much it is, don't you?"

"Yes, sir, I do. It is twenty-four dollars and sixty-five cents. You
said you spent twenty dollars. But here is a discrepancy of four
dollars and sixty-five cents. How do you account for it?"

"Well, I suppose I didn't figure just exactly right," said Clyde,
irritated by the accuracy of figures such as these.

But now Mason slyly and softly inquiring: "Oh, yes, Griffiths, I
forgot, how much was the boat you hired at Big Bittern?" He was eager
to hear what Clyde would have to say as to this, seeing that he had
worked hard and long on this pitfall.

"Oh--ah--ah--that is," began Clyde, hesitatingly, for at Big Bittern,
as he now recalled, he had not even troubled to inquire the cost of
the boat, feeling as he did at the time that neither he nor Roberta
were coming back. But now here and in this way it was coming up for the
first time. And Mason, realizing that he had caught him here, quickly
interpolated a "Yes?" to which Clyde replied, but merely guessing
at that: "Why, thirty-five cents an hour--just the same as at Grass
Lake--so the boatman said."

But he had spoken too quickly. And he did not know that in reserve was
the boatman who was still to testify that he had not stopped to ask the
price of the boat. And Mason continued:

"Oh, it was, was it? The boatman told you that, did he?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well now, don't you recall that you never asked the boatman at all?
It was not thirty-five cents an hour, but fifty cents. But of course
you do not know that because you were in such a hurry to get out on
the water and you did not expect to have to come back and pay for it
anyway. So you never even asked, you see. Do you see? Do you recall
that now?" And here Mason produced a bill that he had gotten from the
boatman and waved it in front of Clyde. "It was fifty cents an hour,"
he repeated. "They charge more than at Grass Lake. But what I want to
know is, if you are so familiar with these other figures, as you have
just shown that you are, how comes it that you are not familiar with
this figure? Didn't you think of the expense of taking her out in a
boat and keeping the boat from noon until night?" The attack came so
swiftly and bitterly that at once Clyde was confused. He twisted and
turned, swallowed and looked nervously at the floor, ashamed to look at
Jephson who had somehow failed to coach him as to this.

"Well," bawled Mason, "any explanation to make as to that? Doesn't it
strike even you as strange that you can remember every other item of
all your expenditures--but not that item?" And now each juror was once
more tense and leaning forward. And Clyde noting their interest and
curiosity, and most likely suspicion, now returned:

"Well, I don't know just how I came to forget that."

"Oh, no, of course you don't" snorted Mason. "A man who is planning
to kill a girl on a lone lake has a lot of things to think of, and it
isn't any wonder if you forget a few of them. But you didn't forget to
ask the purser the fare to Sharon, once you got to Three Mile Bay, did
you?"

"I don't remember if I did or not."

"Well, he remembers. He testified to it here. You bothered to ask the
price of the room at Grass Lake. You asked the price of the boat there.
You even asked the price of the bus fare to Big Bittern. What a pity
you couldn't think to ask the price of the boat at Big Bittern? You
wouldn't be so nervous about it now, would you?" and here Mason looked
at the jurors as much as to say: You see!

"I just didn't think of it, I guess," repeated Clyde.

"A very satisfactory explanation, I'm sure," went on Mason,
sarcastically. And then as swiftly as possible: "I don't suppose
you happen to recall an item of thirteen dollars and twenty cents
paid for a lunch at the Casino on July ninth--the day after Roberta
Alden's death---do you or do you not?" Mason was dramatic, persistent,
swift--scarcely giving him time to think or breathe, as he saw it.

At this Clyde almost jumped, so startled was he by this question and
charge, for he did not know that they had found out about the lunch.
"And do you remember, too," went on Mason, "that over eighty dollars
was found on you when you were arrested?"

"Yes, I remember it now," he replied.

As for the eighty dollars he had forgotten. Yet now he said nothing,
for he could not think what to say.

"How about that?" went on Mason, doggedly and savagely. "If you only
had fifty dollars when you left Lycurgus and over eighty dollars when
you were arrested, and you spent twenty-four dollars and sixty-five
cents plus thirteen for a lunch, where did you get that extra money
from?"

"Well, I can't answer that just now," replied Clyde, sullenly, for he
felt cornered and hurt. That was Sondra's money and nothing would drag
out of him where he had gotten it.

"Why can't you answer it?" roared Mason. "Where do you think you are,
anyhow? And what do you think we are here for? To say what you will or
will not answer? You are on trial for your life--don't forget that! You
can't play fast and loose with law, however much you may have lied to
me. You are here before these twelve men and they are waiting to know.
Now, what about it? Where did you get that money?"

"I borrowed it from a friend."

"Well, give his name. What friend?"

"I don't care to."

"Oh, you don't! Well, you're lying about the amount of money you had
when you left Lycurgus--that's plain. And under oath, too. Don't forget
that! That sacred oath that you respect so much. Isn't that true?"

"No, it isn't," finally observed Clyde, stung to reason by this charge.
"I borrowed that money after I got to Twelfth Lake."

"And from whom?"

"Well, I can't say."

"Which makes the statement worthless," retorted Mason.

Clyde was beginning to show a disposition to balk. He had been sinking
his voice and each time Mason commanded him to speak up and turn around
so the jury could see his face, he had done so, only feeling more and
more resentful toward this man who was thus trying to drag out of him
every secret he possessed. He had touched on Sondra, and she was still
too near his heart to reveal anything that would reflect on her. So now
he sat staring down at the jurors somewhat defiantly, when Mason picked
up some pictures.

"Remember these?" he now asked Clyde, showing him some of the dim and
water-marked reproductions of Roberta besides some views of Clyde and
some others--none of them containing the face of Sondra--which were
made at the Cranstons' on his first visit, as well as four others made
at Bear Lake later, and with one of them showing him holding a banjo,
his fingers in position. "Recall where these were made?" asked Mason,
showing him the reproduction of Roberta first.

"Yes, I do."

"Where was it?"

"On the south shore of Big Bittern the day we were there." He knew that
they were in the camera and had told Belknap and Jephson about them,
yet now he was not a little surprised to think that they had been able
to develop them.

"Griffiths," went on Mason, "your lawyers didn't tell you that they
fished and fished for that camera you swore you didn't have with you
before they found that I had it, did they?"

"They never said anything to me about it," replied Clyde.

"Well, that's too bad. I could have saved them a lot of trouble. Well,
these were the photos that were found in that camera and that were made
just after that change of heart you experienced, you remember?"

"I remember when they were made," replied Clyde, sullenly.

"Well, they were made before you two went out in that boat for the last
time--before you finally told her whatever it was you wanted to tell
her--before she was murdered out there--at a time when, as you have
testified, she was very sad."

"No, that was the day before," defied Clyde.

"Oh, I see. Well, anyhow, these pictures look a little cheerful for one
who was as depressed as you say she was."

"Well--but--she wasn't nearly as depressed then as she was the day
before," flashed Clyde, for this was the truth and he remembered it.

"I see. But just the same, look at these other pictures. These three
here, for instance. Where were they made?"

"At the Cranston Lodge on Twelfth Lake, I think."

"Right. And that was June eighteenth or nineteenth, wasn't it?"

"On the nineteenth, I think."

"Well, now, do you recall a letter Roberta wrote you on the nineteenth?"

"No, sir."

"You don't recall any particular one?"

"No, sir."

"But they were all very sad, you have said."

"Yes, sir--they were."

"Well, this is that letter written at the time these pictures were
made." He turned to the jury.

"I would like the jury to look at these pictures and then listen
to just one passage from this letter written by Miss Alden to this
defendant on the same day. He has admitted that he was refusing to
write or telephone her, although he was sorry for her," he said,
turning to the jury. And here he opened a letter and read a long sad
plea from Roberta. "And now here are four more pictures, Griffiths."
And he handed Clyde the four made at Bear Lake. "Very cheerful, don't
you think? Not much like pictures of a man who has just experienced a
great change of heart after a most terrific period of doubt and worry
and evil conduct--and has just seen the woman whom he had most cruelly
wronged, but whom he now proposed to do right by, suddenly drowned.
They look as though you hadn't a care in the world, don't they?"

"Well, they were just group pictures. I couldn't very well keep out of
them."

"But this one in the water here. Didn't it trouble you the least bit to
go in the water the second or third day after Roberta Alden had sunk to
the bottom of Big Bittern, and especially when you had experienced such
an inspiring change of heart in regard to her?"

"I didn't want any one to know I had been up there with her."

"We know all about that. But how about this banjo picture here. Look at
this!" And he held it out. "Very gay, isn't it?" he snarled. And now
Clyde, dubious and frightened, replied:

"But I wasn't enjoying myself just the same!"

"Not when you were playing the banjo here? Not when you were playing
golf and tennis with your friends the very next day after her death?
Not when you were buying and eating thirteen-dollar lunches? Not when
you were with Miss X again, and where you yourself testified that you
preferred to be?"

Mason's manner was snarling, punitive, sinister, bitterly sarcastic.

"Well, not just then, anyhow--no, sir."

"What do you mean--'not just then'? Weren't you where you wanted to be?"

"Well, in one way I was--certainly," replied Clyde, thinking of what
Sondra would think when she read this, as unquestionably she would.
Quite everything of all this was being published in the papers each
day. He could not deny that he was with her and that he wanted to be
with her. At the same time he had not been happy. How miserably unhappy
he had been, enmeshed in that shameful and brutal plot! But now he
must explain in some way so that Sondra, when she should read it, and
this jury, would understand. And so now he added, while he swallowed
with his dry throat and licked his lips with his dry tongue: "But I
was sorry about Miss Alden just the same. I couldn't be happy then--I
couldn't be. I was just trying to make people think that I hadn't had
anything to do with her going up there--that's all. I couldn't see that
there was any better way to do. I didn't want to be arrested for what I
hadn't done."

"Don't you know that is false! Don't you know you are lying!" shouted
Mason, as though to the whole world, and the fire and the fury of his
unbelief and contempt was sufficient to convince the jury, as well as
the spectators, that Clyde was the most unmitigated of liars. "You
heard the testimony of Rufus Martin, the second cook up there at Bear
Lake?"

"Yes, sir."

"You heard him swear that he saw you and Miss X at a certain point
overlooking Bear Lake and that she was in your arms and that you were
kissing her. Was that true?"

"Yes, sir."

"And that exactly four days after you had left Roberta Alden under the
waters of Big Bittern. Were you afraid of being arrested then?"

"Yes, sir."

"Even when you were kissing her and holding her in your arms?"

"Yes, sir," replied Clyde, drearily and hopelessly.

"Well, of all things!" bawled Mason. "Could you imagine such stuff
being whimpered before a jury, if you hadn't heard it with your own
ears? Do you really sit there and swear to this jury that you could
bill and coo with one deceived girl in your arms and a second one in
a lake a hundred miles away, and yet be miserable because of what you
were doing?"

"Just the same, that's the way it was," replied Clyde.

"Excellent! Incomparable," shouted Mason.

And here he wearily and sighfully drew forth his large white
handkerchief once more and surveying the courtroom at large proceeded
to mop his face as much as to say: Well, this is a task indeed, then
continuing with more force than ever:

"Griffiths, only yesterday on the witness stand you swore that you
personally had no plan to go to Big Bittern when you left Lycurgus."

"No, sir, I hadn't."

"But when you two got in that room at the Renfrew House in Utica
and you saw how tired she looked, it was you that suggested that a
vacation of some kind--a little one--something within the range of your
joint purses at the time--would be good for her. Wasn't that the way of
it?"

"Yes, sir. That was the way of it," replied Clyde.

"But up to that time you hadn't even thought of the Adirondacks
specifically."

"Well, no, sir--no particular lake, that is. I did think we might go to
some summer place maybe--they're mostly lakes around here--but not to
any particular one that I knew of."

"I see. And after you suggested it, it was she that said that you had
better get some folders or maps, wasn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And then it was that you went downstairs and got them?"

"Yes, sir."

"At the Renfrew House in Utica?"

"Yes, sir."

"Not anywhere else by any chance?"

"No, sir."

"And afterwards, in looking over those maps, you saw Grass Lake and Big
Bittern and decided to go up that way. Was that the way of it?"

"Yes, we did," lied Clyde, most nervously, wishing now that he had not
testified that it was in the Renfrew House that he had secured the
folders. There might be some trap here again.

"You and Miss Alden?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you picked on Grass Lake as being the best because it was the
cheapest. Wasn't that the way of it?"

"Yes, sir. That was the way."

"I see. And now do you remember these?" he added, reaching over and
taking from his table a series of folders all properly identified as
part and parcel of the contents of Clyde's bag at Bear Lake at the time
he was arrested, and which he now placed in Clyde's hands. "Look them
over. Are those the folders I found in your bag at Bear Lake?"

"Well, they look like the ones I had there."

"Are these the ones you found in the rack at the Renfrew House and took
upstairs to show Miss Alden?"

Not a little terrified by the care with which this matter of folders
was now being gone into by Mason, Clyde opened them and turned them
over. Even now, because the label of the Lycurgus House ("Compliments
of Lycurgus House, Lycurgus, N. Y.") was stamped in red very much like
the printed red lettering on the rest of the folder, he failed to
notice it at first.

He turned and turned them over, and then having decided that there was
no trap here, replied: "Yes, I think these are the ones."

"Well, now," went on Mason, slyly, "in which one of these was it that
you found that notice of Grass Lake Inn and the rate they charged up
there? Wasn't it in this one?" And here he returned the identical
stamped folder, on one page of which--and the same indicated by Mason's
left forefinger--was the exact notice to which Clyde had called
Roberta's attention. Also in the center was a map showing the Indian
Chain together with Twelfth, Big Bittern, and Grass Lakes, as well as
many others, and at the bottom of this map a road plainly indicated as
leading from Grass Lake and Gun Lodge south past the southern end of
Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay. Now seeing this after so long a time
again, he suddenly decided that it must be his knowledge of this road
that Mason was seeking to establish, and a little quivery and creepy
now, he replied: "Yes, it may be the one. It looks like it. I guess it
is, maybe."

"Don't you know that it is?" insisted Mason, darkly and dourly. "Can't
you tell from reading that item there whether it is or not?"

"Well, it looks like it," replied Clyde, evasively after examining the
item which had inclined him toward Grass Lake in the first place. "I
suppose maybe it is."

"You suppose! You suppose! Getting a little more cautious now that
we're getting down to something practical. Well, just look at that map
there again and tell me what you see. Tell me if you don't see a road
marked as leading south from Grass Lake."

"Yes," replied Clyde, a little sullenly and bitterly after a time,
so flayed and bruised was he by this man who was so determined to
harry him to his grave. He fingered the map and pretended to took as
directed, but was seeing only all that he had seen long before there in
Lycurgus, so shortly before he departed for Fonda to meet Roberta. And
now here it was being used against him.

"And where does it run, please? Do you mind telling the jury where it
runs--from where to where?"

And Clyde, nervous and fearful and physically very much reduced, now
replied: "Well, it runs from Grass Lake to Three Mile Bay."

"And to what or near what other places in between?" continued Mason,
looking over his shoulder.

"Gun Lodge. That's all."

"What about Big Bittern? Doesn't it run near that when it gets to the
south of it?"

"Yes, sir, it does here."

"Ever notice or study that map before you went to Grass Lake from
Utica?" persisted Mason, tensely and forcefully.

"No, sir--I did not."

"Never knew the road was on there?"

"Well, I may have seen it," replied Clyde, "but if so I didn't pay any
attention to it."

"And, of course, by no possible chance could you have seen or studied
this folder and that road before you left Utica?"

"No, sir. I never saw it before."

"I see. You're absolutely positive as to that?"

"Yes, sir. I am."

"Well then, explain to me, or to this jury, if you can, and under
your solemn oath which you respect so much, how it comes that this
particular folder chances to be marked, 'Compliments of the Lycurgus
House, Lycurgus, N. Y.'" And here he folded the folder and presenting
the back, showed Clyde the thin red stamp in between the other red
lettering. And Clyde, noting it, gazed as one in a trance. His
ultra-pale face now blanched gray again, his long thin fingers opened
and shut, the red and swollen and weary lids of his eyes blinked and
blinked to break the strain of the damning fact before him.

"I don't know," he said, a little weakly, after a time. "It must have
been in the Renfrew House rack."

"Oh, must it? And if I bring two witnesses here to swear that on July
third--three days before you left Lycurgus for Fonda--you were seen by
them to enter the Lycurgus House and take four or five folders from
the rack there, will you still say that it 'musta been in the rack at
the Renfrew House' on July sixth?" As he said this, Mason paused and
looked triumphantly about as much as to say: There, answer that if you
can! and Clyde, shaken and stiff and breathless for the time being,
was compelled to wait at least fifteen seconds before he was able
sufficiently to control his nerves and voice in order to reply: "Well,
it musta been. I didn't get it in Lycurgus."

"Very good. But in the meantime we'll just let these gentlemen here
look at this," and he now turned the folder over to the foreman of the
jury, who in turn passed it to the juryman next to him, and so on, the
while a distinct whisper and buzz passed over the entire courtroom.

And when they had concluded--and much to the surprise of the audience,
which was expecting more and more attacks and exposures almost without
cessation--Mason turned and explained: "That's all." And at once
many of the spectators in the room beginning to whisper: "Trapped!
Trapped!" And Justice Oberwaltzer at once announcing that because of
the lateness of the hour, and in the face of a number of additional
witnesses for the defense, as well as a few in rebuttal for the
prosecution, he would prefer it if the work for the day ended here.
And both Belknap and Mason gladly agreeing. And Clyde--the doors of
the courtroom being stoutly locked until he should be in his cell
across the way--being descended upon by Kraut and Sissell and by them
led through and down the very door and stairs which for days he had
been looking at and pondering about. And once he was gone, Belknap
and Jephson looking at each other but not saying anything until once
more safely locked in their own office, when Belknap began with: "...
not carried off with enough of an air. The best possible defense but
not enough courage. It just isn't in him, that's all." And Jephson,
flinging himself heavily into a chair, his overcoat and hat still on,
and saying: "No, that's the real trouble, no doubt. It musta been that
he really did kill her. But I suppose we can't give up the ship now. He
did almost better than I expected, at that." And Belknap adding: "Well,
I'll do my final best and damnedest in my summing up, and that's all I
can do." And Jephson replying, a little wearily: "That's right, Alvin,
it's mostly up to you now, I'm sorry. But in the meantime, I think I'll
go around to the jail and try and hearten 'im up a bit. It won't do to
let him look too winged or lame tomorrow. He has to sit up and make the
jury feel that he, himself, feels that he isn't guilty whatever they
think." And rising he shoved his hands in the side pockets of his long
coat and proceeded through the winter's dark and cold of the dreary
town to see Clyde.




                             CHAPTER XXVI


The remainder of the trial consisted of the testimony of eleven
witnesses--four for Mason and seven for Clyde. One of the latter--a Dr.
A. K. Sword, of Rehobeth--chancing to be at Big Bittern on the day that
Roberta's body was returned to the boat-house, now declared that he had
seen and examined it there and that the wounds, as they appeared then,
did not seem to him as other than such as might have been delivered
by such a blow as Clyde admitted to having struck accidentally, and
that unquestionably Miss Alden had been drowned while conscious--and
not unconscious, as the state would have the jury believe--a result
which led Mason into an inquiry concerning the gentleman's medical
history, which, alas, was not as impressive as it might have been.
He had been graduated from a second-rate medical school in Oklahoma
and had practised in a small town ever since. In addition to him--and
entirely apart from the crime with which Clyde was charged--there was
Samuel Yearsley, one of the farmers from around Gun Lodge, who, driving
over the road which Roberta's body had traveled in being removed from
Big Bittern to Gun Lodge, now earnestly swore that the road, as he had
noticed in driving over it that same morning, was quite rough--making
it possible for Belknap, who was examining him, to indicate that
this was at least an approximate cause of the extra-severity of the
wounds upon Roberta's head and face. This bit of testimony was later
contradicted, however, by a rival witness for Mason--the driver for
Lutz Brothers, no less, who as earnestly swore that he found no ruts
or rough places whatsoever in the road. And again there were Liggett
and Whiggam to say that in so far as they had been able to note or
determine, Clyde's conduct in connection with his technical efforts for
Griffiths & Company had been attentive, faithful and valuable. They had
seen no official harm in him. And then several other minor witnesses
to say that in so far as they had been able to observe his social
comings and goings, Clyde's conduct was most circumspect, ceremonious
and guarded. He had done no ill that they knew of. But, alas, as Mason
in cross-examining them was quick to point out, they had never heard
of Roberta Alden or her trouble or even of Clyde's social relationship
with her.

Finally many small and dangerous and difficult points having been
bridged or buttressed or fended against as well as each side could, it
became Belknap's duty to say his last word for Clyde. And to this he
gave an entire day, most carefully, and in the spirit of his opening
address, retracing and emphasizing every point which tended to show
how, almost unconsciously, if not quite innocently, Clyde had fallen
into the relationship with Roberta which had ended so disastrously
for both. Mental and moral cowardice, as he now reiterated, inflamed
or at least operated on by various lacks in Clyde's early life, plus
new opportunities such as previously had never appeared to be within
his grasp, had affected his "_perhaps too pliable and sensual and
impractical and dreaming mind_." No doubt he had not been fair to Miss
Alden. No question as to that. He had not. But on the other hand--and
as had been most clearly shown by the confession which the defense
had elicited--he had not proved ultimately so cruel or vile as the
prosecution would have the public and this honorable jury believe. Many
men were far more cruel in their love life than this young boy had
ever dreamed of being, and, of course, they were not necessarily hung
for that. And in passing technically on whether this boy had actually
committed the crime charged, it was incumbent upon this jury to see
that no generous impulse relating to what this poor girl might have
suffered in her love-relations with this youth be permitted to sway
them to the belief or decision that for that this youth had committed
the crime specifically stated in the indictment. Who among both sexes
were not cruel at times in their love life, the one to the other?

And then a long and detailed indictment of the purely circumstantial
nature of the evidence--no single person having seen or heard anything
of the alleged crime itself, whereas Clyde himself had explained most
clearly how he came to find himself in the peculiar situation in which
he did find himself. And after that, a brushing aside of the incident
of the folder, as well as Clyde's not remembering the price of the
boat at Big Bittern, his stopping to bury the tripod and his being so
near Roberta and not aiding her, as either being mere accidents of
chance, or memory, or, in the case of his failing to go to her rescue,
of his being dazed, confused, frightened--"hesitating fatally but
not criminally at the one time in his life when he should not have
hesitated"--a really strong if jesuitical plea which was not without
its merits and its weight.

And then Mason, blazing with his conviction that Clyde was a murderer
of the coldest and blackest type, and spending an entire day in
riddling the "spider's tissue of lies and unsupported statements" with
which the defense was hoping to divert the minds of the jury from
the unbroken and unbreakable chain of amply substantiated evidence
wherewith the prosecution had proved this "bearded man" to be the
"red-handed murderer" that he was. And with hours spent in retracing
the statements of the various witnesses. And other hours in denouncing
Clyde, or re-telling the bitter miseries of Roberta--so much so that
the jury, as well as the audience, was once more on the verge of tears.
And with Clyde deciding in his own mind, as he sat between Belknap and
Jephson, that no jury such as this was likely to acquit him in the face
of evidence so artfully and movingly recapitulated.

And then Oberwaltzer from his high seat finally instructing the
jury: "Gentlemen--all evidence is, in a strict sense, more or less
circumstantial, whether consisting of facts which permit the inference
of guilt or whether given by an eyewitness. The testimony of an
eyewitness is, of course, based upon circumstances.

"If any of the material facts of the case are at variance with the
probability of guilt, it will be the duty of you gentlemen to give the
defendant the benefit of the doubt raised.

"And it must be remembered that evidence is not to be discredited or
decried because it is circumstantial. It may often be more reliable
evidence than direct evidence.

"Much has been said here concerning motive and its importance in this
case, but you are to remember that proof of motive is by no means
indispensable or essential to conviction. While a motive may be shown
as a _circumstance_ to aid in _fixing_ a crime, yet the people are not
required to prove a motive.

"If the jury finds that Roberta Alden accidentally or involuntarily
fell out of the boat and that the defendant made no attempt to rescue
her, that does not make the defendant guilty and the jury must find the
defendant 'not guilty.' On the other hand, if the jury finds that the
defendant in any way, intentionally, there and then brought about or
contributed to that fatal accident, either by a blow or otherwise, it
must find the defendant guilty.

"While I do not say that you must agree upon your verdict, I would
suggest that you ought not, any of you, place your minds in a position
which will not yield if after careful deliberation you find you are
wrong."

So Justice Oberwaltzer--solemnly and didactically from his high seat to
the jury.

And then, that point having been reached, the jury rising and filing
from the room at five in the afternoon. And Clyde immediately
thereafter being removed to his cell before the audience proper was
allowed to leave the building. There was constant fear on the part of
the sheriff that he might be attacked. And after that five long hours
in which he waited, walking to and fro, to and fro, in his cell, or
pretending to read or rest, the while Kraut or Sissell, tipped by
various representatives of the press for information as to how Clyde
"took it" at this time, slyly and silently remained as near as possible
to watch.

And in the meantime Justice Oberwaltzer and Mason and Belknap and
Jephson, with their attendants and friends, in various rooms of the
Bridgeburg Central Hotel, dining and then waiting impatiently, with the
aid of a few drinks, for the jury to agree, and wishing and hoping that
the verdict would be reached soon, whatever it might be.

And in the meantime the twelve men--farmers, clerks, and storekeepers,
re-canvassing for their own mental satisfaction the fine points made
by Mason and Belknap and Jephson. Yet out of the whole twelve but
one man--Samuel Upham, a druggist--(politically opposed to Mason and
taken with the personality of Jephson)--sympathizing with Belknap and
Jephson. And so pretending that he had doubts as to the completeness
of Mason's proof until at last after five ballots were taken he was
threatened with exposure and the public rage and obloquy which was
sure to follow in case the jury was hung. "We'll fix you. You won't
get by with this without the public knowing exactly where you stand."
Whereupon, having a satisfactory drug business in North Mansfield, he
at once decided that it was best to pocket this opposition to Mason and
agree.

Then four hollow knocks on the door leading from the jury room to the
court room. It was the foreman of the jury, Foster Lund, a dealer
in cement, lime and stone. His great fist was knocking. And at that
the hundreds who had crowded into the hot stuffy court room after
dinner--though many had not even left--stirred from the half stupor
into which they had fallen. "What's that? What's happened? Is the jury
ready to report? What's the verdict?" And men and women and children
starting up to draw nearer the excluding rail. And the two deputies on
guard before the jury door beginning to call, "All right! All right!
As soon as the judge comes." And then other deputies hurrying to the
prison over the way in order that the sheriff might be notified and
Clyde brought over--and to the Bridgeburg Central Hotel to summon
Oberwaltzer and all the others. And then Clyde, in a half stupor or
daze from sheer loneliness and killing suspense, being manacled to
Kraut and led over between Slack, Sissell and others. And Oberwaltzer,
Mason, Belknap and Jephson and the entire company of newspaper writers,
artists, photographers and others entering and taking the places that
they had occupied all these long weeks. And Clyde winking and blinking
as he was seated behind Belknap and Jephson now--not with them, for as
stoutly manacled as he was to Kraut, he was compelled to sit by him.
And then Oberwaltzer on the bench and the clerk in his place, the jury
room door being opened and the twelve men filing solemnly in--quaint
and varied figures in angular and for the most part much-worn suits of
the ready-made variety. And as they did so, seating themselves in the
jury box, only to rise again at the command of the clerk, who began:
"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed on a verdict?"--yet without
one of them glancing in the direction of either Belknap or Jephson or
Clyde, which Belknap at once interpreted as fatal.

"It's all off," he whispered to Jephson. "Against us. I can tell."
And then Lund announcing: "We have. We find the defendant guilty of
murder in the first degree." And Clyde, entirely dazed and yet trying
to keep his poise and remain serene, gazing straight before him toward
the jury and beyond, and with scarcely a blink of the eye. For had he
not, in his cell the night before, been told by Jephson, who had found
him deeply depressed, that the verdict in this trial, assuming that it
proved to be unfavorable, was of no consequence. The trial from start
to finish had been unfair. Prejudice and bias had governed its every
step. Such bullying and browbeating and innuendo as Mason had indulged
in before the jury would never pass as fair or adequate in any higher
court. And a new trial--on appeal--would certainly be granted--although
by whom such an appeal was to be conducted he was not now prepared to
discuss.

And now, recalling that, Clyde saying to himself that it did not so
much matter perhaps, after all. It could not, really--or could it? Yet
think what these words meant in case he could not get a new trial!
Death! That is what it would mean if this were final--and perhaps it
was final. And then to sit in that chair he had seen in his mind's eye
for so long--these many days and nights when he could not force his
mind to drive it away. Here it was again before him--that dreadful,
ghastly chair--only closer and larger than ever before--there in the
very center of the space between himself and Justice Oberwaltzer. He
could see it plainly now--squarish, heavy-armed, heavy-backed, some
straps at the top and sides. God! Supposing no one would help him now!
Even the Griffiths might not be willing to pay out any more money!
Think of that! The Court of Appeals to which Jephson and Belknap had
referred might not be willing to help him either. And then these words
would be final. They would! They would! God! His jaws moved slightly,
then set--because at the moment he became conscious that they were
moving. Besides, at that moment Belknap was rising and asking for an
individual poll of the jury, while Jephson leaned over and whispered:
"Don't worry about it. It isn't final. We'll get a reversal as sure
as anything." Yet as each of the jurors was saying: "Yes"--Clyde was
listening to them, not to Jephson. Why should each one say that with
so much emphasis? Was there not one who felt that he might not have
done as Mason had said--struck her intentionally? Was there not one who
even half-believed in that change of heart which Belknap and Jephson
had insisted that he had experienced? He looked at them all--little
and big. They were like a blackish-brown group of wooden toys with
creamish-brown or old ivory faces and hands. Then he thought of his
mother. She would hear of this now, for here were all these newspaper
writers and artists and photographers assembled to hear this. And what
would the Griffiths--his uncle and Gilbert--think now? And Sondra!
Sondra! Not a word from her. And through all this he had been openly
testifying, as Belknap and Jephson had agreed that he must do--to the
compelling and directing power of his passion for her--the real reason
for all this! But not a word. And she would not send him any word now,
of course--she who had been going to marry him and give him everything!

But in the meantime the crowd about him silent although--or perhaps
because--intensely satisfied. The little devil hadn't "gotten by."
He hadn't fooled the twelve sane men of this county with all that
bunk about a change of heart. What rot! While Jephson sat and stared,
and Belknap, his strong face written all over with contempt and
defiance, making his motions. And Mason and Burleigh and Newcomb and
Redmond thinly repressing their intense satisfaction behind masks
preternaturally severe, the while Belknap continued with a request
that the sentence be put off until the following Friday--a week hence,
when he could more conveniently attend, but with Justice Oberwaltzer
replying that he thought not--unless some good reason could be shown.
But on the morrow, if counsel desired, he would listen to an argument.
If it were satisfactory he would delay sentence--otherwise, pronounce
it the following Monday.

Yet, even so, Clyde was not concerned with this argument at the moment.
He was thinking of his mother and what she would think--feel. He had
been writing her so regularly, insisting always that he was innocent
and that she must not believe all, or even a part, of what she read in
the newspapers. He was going to be acquitted sure. He was going to go
on the stand and testify for himself. But now ... now ... oh, he needed
her now--so much. Quite every one, as it seemed now, had forsaken
him. He was terribly, terribly alone. And he must send her some word
quickly. He must. He must. And then asking Jephson for a piece of paper
and a pencil, he wrote: "Mrs. Asa Griffiths, care of Star of Hope
Mission, Denver, Colorado. Dear mother--I am convicted--Clyde." And
then handing that to Jephson, he asked him, nervously and weakly, if he
would see that it was sent right away. "Right away, son, sure," replied
Jephson, touched by his looks, and waving to a press boy who was near
gave it to him together with the money.

And then, while this was going on, all the public exits being locked
until Clyde, accompanied by Sissell and Kraut, had been ushered through
the familiar side entrance through which he had hoped to escape. And
with all the press and the public and the still-remaining jury gazing,
for even yet they had not seen enough of Clyde but must stare into his
face to see how he was taking it. And because of the local feeling
against him, Justice Oberwaltzer, at Slack's request, holding court
un-adjourned until word was brought that Clyde was once more locked
in his cell, whereupon the doors were re-opened. And then the crowd
surging out but only to wait at the courtroom door in order to glimpse,
as he passed out, Mason, who now, of all the figures in this case, was
the true hero--the nemesis of Clyde--the avenger of Roberta. But he not
appearing at first but instead Jephson and Belknap together, and not
so much depressed as solemn, defiant--Jephson, in particular, looking
unconquerably contemptuous. Then some one calling: "Well, you didn't
get him off just the same," and Jephson replying, with a shrug of his
shoulders, "Not yet, but this county isn't all of the law either." Then
Mason, immediately afterward--a heavy, baggy overcoat thrown over his
shoulder, his worn soft hat pulled low over his eyes--and followed by
Burleigh, Heit, Newcomb and others as a royal train--while he walked in
the manner of one entirely oblivious of the meaning or compliment of
this waiting throng. For was he not now a victor and an elected judge!
And as instantly being set upon by a circling, huzzahing mass--the
while a score of those nearest sought to seize him by the hand or place
a grateful pat upon his arm or shoulder. "Hurrah for Orville!" "Good
for you, judge!" (his new or fast-approaching title). "By God! Orville
Mason, you deserve the thanks of this county!" "Hy-oh! Heigh! Heigh!"
"Three cheers for Orville Mason!" And with that the crowd bursting into
three resounding huzzahs--which Clyde in his cell could clearly hear
and at the same time sense the meaning of.

They were cheering Mason for convicting him. In that large crowd out
there there was not one who did not believe him totally and completely
guilty. Roberta--her letters--her determination to make him marry
her--her giant fear of exposure--had dragged him down to this. To
conviction. To death, maybe. Away from all he had longed for--away
from all he had dreamed he might possess. And Sondra! Sondra! Not a
word! Not a word! And so now, fearing that Kraut or Sissell or some
one might be watching (ready to report even now his every gesture),
and not willing to show after all how totally collapsed and despondent
he really was, he sat down and taking up a magazine pretended to read,
the while he looked far, far beyond it to other scenes--his mother--his
brother and sisters--the Griffiths--all he had known. But finding these
unsubstantiated mind visions a little too much, he finally got up and
throwing off his clothes climbed into his iron cot.

"Convicted! Convicted!" And that meant that he must die! God! But how
blessed to be able to conceal his face upon a pillow and not let any
one see--however accurately they might guess!




                             CHAPTER XXVII


The dreary aftermath of a great contest and a great failure, with
the general public from coast to coast--in view of this stern local
interpretation of the tragedy--firmly convinced that Clyde was
guilty and, as heralded by the newspapers everywhere, that he had
been properly convicted. The pathos of that poor little murdered
country girl! Her sad letters! How she must have suffered! That weak
defense! Even the Griffiths of Denver were so shaken by the evidence
as the trial had progressed that they scarcely dared read the papers
openly--one to the other--but, for the most part, read of it separately
and alone, whispering together afterwards of the damning, awful deluge
of circumstantial evidence. Yet, after reading Belknap's speech and
Clyde's own testimony, this little family group that had struggled
along together for so long coming to believe in their own son and
brother in spite of all they had previously read against him. And
because of this--during the trial as well as afterwards--writing him
cheerful and hopeful letters, based frequently on letters from him in
which he insisted over and over again that he was not guilty. Yet once
convicted, and out of the depths of his despair wiring his mother as
he did--and the papers confirming it--absolute consternation in the
Griffiths family. For was not this proof? Or, was it? All the papers
seemed to think so. And they rushed reporters to Mrs. Griffiths, who,
together with her little brood, had sought refuge from the unbearable
publicity in a remote part of Denver entirely removed from the mission
world. A venal moving-van company had revealed her address.

And now this American witness to the rule of God upon earth, sitting
in a chair in her shabby, nondescript apartment, hard-pressed for the
very means to sustain herself--degraded by the milling forces of life
and the fell and brutal blows of chance--yet serene in her trust--and
declaring: "I cannot think this morning. I seem numb and things look
strange to me. My boy found guilty of murder! But I am his mother and I
am not convinced of his guilt by any means! He has written me that he
is not guilty and I believe him. And to whom should he turn with the
truth and for trust if not to me? But there is He who sees all things
and who knows."

At the same time there was so much in the long stream of evidence,
as well as Clyde's first folly in Kansas City, that had caused her
to wonder--and fear. Why was he unable to explain that folder? Why
couldn't he have gone to the girl's aid when he could swim so well?
And why did he proceed so swiftly to the mysterious Miss X--whoever
she was? Oh, surely, surely, she was not going to be compelled, in
spite of all her faith, to believe that her eldest--the most ambitious
and hopeful, if restless, of all of her children, was guilty of such
a crime! No! She could not doubt him--even now. Under the merciful
direction of a living God, was it not evil in a mother to believe evil
of a child, however dread his erring ways might seem? In the silence
of the different rooms of the mission, before she had been compelled
to remove from there because of curious and troublesome visitors, had
she not stood many times in the center of one of those miserable rooms
while sweeping and dusting, free from the eye of any observer--her head
thrown back, her eyes closed, her strong, brown face molded in homely
and yet convinced and earnest lines--a figure out of the early Biblical
days of her six thousand-year-old world--and earnestly directing
her thoughts to that imaginary throne which she saw as occupied by
the living, giant mind and body of the living God--her Creator. And
praying by the quarter and the half hour that she be given strength and
understanding and guidance to know of her son's innocence or guilt--and
if innocent that this searing burden of suffering be lifted from him
and her and all those dear to him and her--or if guilty, she be shown
how to do--how to endure the while he be shown how to wash from his
immortal soul forever the horror of the thing he had done--make himself
once more, if possible, white before the Lord.

"Thou art mighty, O God, and there is none beside Thee. Behold, to
Thee all things are possible. In Thy favor is Life. Have mercy, O God.
Though his sins be as scarlet, make him white as snow. Though they be
red like crimson, make them as wool."

Yet in her then--and as she prayed--was the wisdom of Eve in regard
to the daughters of Eve. That girl whom Clyde was alleged to have
slain--what about her? Had she not sinned too? And was she not older
than Clyde? The papers said so. Examining the letters, line by line,
she was moved by their pathos and was intensely and pathetically
grieved for the misery that had befallen the Aldens. Nevertheless, as
a mother and a woman full of the wisdom of ancient Eve, she saw how
Roberta herself must have consented--how the lure of her must have
aided in the weakening and the betrayal of her son. A strong, good
girl would not have consented--could not have. How many confessions
about this same thing had she not heard in the mission and at street
meetings? And might it not be said in Clyde's favor--as in the very
beginning of life in the Garden of Eden--"the woman tempted me?"

Truly--and because of that----

"His mercy endureth forever," she quoted. And if His mercy
endureth--must that of Clyde's mother be less?

"If ye have faith, so much as the grain of a mustard seed," she quoted
to herself--and now, in the face of these importuning reporters added:
"Did my son kill her? That is the question. Nothing else matters in
the eyes of our Maker," and she looked at the sophisticated, callous
youths with the look of one who was sure that her God would make them
understand. And even so they were impressed by her profound sincerity
and faith. "Whether or not the jury has found him guilty or innocent is
neither here nor there in the eyes of Him who holds the stars in the
hollow of His hand. The jury's finding is of men. It is of the earth's
earthy. I have read his lawyer's plea. My son himself has told me in
his letters that he is not guilty. I believe my son. I am convinced
that he is innocent."

And Asa in another corner of the room, saying little. Because of
his lack of comprehension of the actualities as well as his lack of
experience of the stern and motivating forces of passion, he was unable
to grasp even a tithe of the meaning of this. He had never understood
Clyde or his lacks or his feverish imaginings, so he said, and
preferred not to discuss him.

"But," continued Mrs. Griffiths, "at no time have I shielded Clyde in
his sin against Roberta Alden. He did wrong, but she did wrong too in
not resisting him. There can be no compromising with sin in any one.
And though my heart goes out in sympathy and love to the bleeding heart
of her dear mother and father who have suffered so, still we must not
fail to see that this sin was mutual and that the world should know and
judge accordingly. Not that I want to shield him," she repeated. "He
should have remembered the teachings of his youth." And here her lips
compressed in a sad and somewhat critical misery. "But I have read her
letters too. And I feel that but for them, the prosecuting attorney
would have had no real case against my son. He used them to work on the
emotions of the jury." She got up, tried as by fire, and exclaimed,
tensely and beautifully: "But he is my son! He has just been convicted.
I must think as a mother how to help him, however I feel as to his
sin." She gripped her hands together, and even the reporters were
touched by her misery. "I must go to him! I should have gone before.
I see it now." She paused, discovering herself to be addressing her
inmost agony, need, fear, to these public ears and voices, which might
in no wise understand or care.

"Some people wonder," now interrupted one of these same--a most
practical and emotionally calloused youth of Clyde's own age--"why you
weren't there during the trial. Didn't you have the money to go?"

"I had no money," she replied, simply. "Not enough, anyhow. And
besides, they advised me not to come--that they did not need me. But
now--now I must go--in some way--I must find out how." She went to
a small, shabby desk, which was a part of the sparse and colorless
equipment of the room. "You boys are going downtown," she said. "Would
one of you send a telegram for me if I give you the money?"

"Sure!" exclaimed the one who had asked her the rudest question. "Give
it to me. You don't need any money. I'll have the paper send it." Also,
as he thought, he would write it up, or in, as a part of his story.

She seated herself at the yellow and scratched desk and after finding
a small pad and pen, she wrote: "Clyde--Trust in God. All things are
possible to him. Appeal at once. Read Psalms 51. Another trial will
prove your innocence. We will come to you soon. Father and Mother."

"Perhaps I had just better give you the money," she added, nervously,
wondering whether it would be well to permit a newspaper to pay for
this and wondering at the same time if Clyde's uncle would be willing
to pay for an appeal. It might cost a great deal. Then she added: "It's
rather long."

"Oh, don't bother about that!" exclaimed another of the trio, who was
anxious to read the telegram. "Write all you want. We'll see that it
goes."

"I want a copy of that," added the third, in a sharp and uncompromising
tone, seeing that the first reporter was proceeding to take and pocket
the message. "This isn't private. I get it from you or her--now!"

And at this, number one, in order to avoid a scene, which Mrs.
Griffiths, in her slow way, was beginning to sense, extracted the slip
from his pocket and turned it over to the others, who there and then
proceeded to copy it.

At the same time that this was going on, the Griffiths of Lycurgus,
having been consulted as to the wisdom and cost of a new trial,
disclosed themselves as by no means interested, let alone convinced,
that an appeal--at least at their expense--was justified. The torture
and socially--if not commercially--destroying force of all this--every
hour of it a Golgotha! Bella and her social future, to say nothing of
Gilbert and his--completely overcast and charred by this awful public
picture of the plot and crime that one of their immediate blood had
conceived and executed! Samuel Griffiths himself, as well as his wife,
fairly macerated by this blasting flash from his well-intentioned,
though seemingly impractical and nonsensical good deed. Had not a long,
practical struggle with life taught him that sentiment in business
was folly? Up to the hour he had met Clyde he had never allowed it to
influence him in any way. But his mistaken notion that his youngest
brother had been unfairly dealt with by their father! And now this!
This! His wife and daughter compelled to remove from the scene of their
happiest years and comforts and live as exiles--perhaps forever--in
one of the suburbs of Boston, or elsewhere--or forever endure the eyes
and sympathy of their friends! And himself and Gilbert almost steadily
conferring ever since as to the wisdom of uniting the business in stock
form with some of the others of Lycurgus or elsewhere--or, if not that,
of transferring, not by degrees but speedily, to either Rochester or
Buffalo or Boston or Brooklyn, where a main plant might be erected. The
disgrace of this could only be overcome by absenting themselves from
Lycurgus and all that it represented to them. They must begin life all
over again--socially at least. That did not mean so much to himself or
his wife--their day was about over anyhow. But Bella and Gilbert and
Myra--how to rehabilitate them in some way, somewhere?

And so, even before the trial was finished, a decision on the part of
Samuel and Gilbert Griffiths to remove the business to South Boston,
where they might decently submerge themselves until the misery and
shame of this had in part at least been forgotten.

And because of this further aid to Clyde absolutely refused. And
Belknap and Jephson then sitting down together to consider. For
obviously, their time being as valuable as it was--devoted hitherto
to the most successful practice in Bridgeburg--and with many matters
waiting on account of the pressure of this particular case--they were
by no means persuaded that either their practical self-interest or
their charity permitted or demanded their assisting Clyde without
further recompense. In fact, the expense of appealing this case was
going to be considerable as they saw it. The record was enormous. The
briefs would be large and expensive, and the State's allowance for
them was pitifully small. At the same time, as Jephson pointed out, it
was folly to assume that the western Griffiths might not be able to
do anything at all. Had they not been identified with religious and
charitable work this long while? And was it not possible, the tragedy
of Clyde's present predicament pointed out to them, that they might
through appeals of various kinds raise at least sufficient money to
defray the actual costs of such an appeal? Of course, they had not
aided Clyde up to the present time but that was because his mother had
been notified that she was not needed. It was different now.

"Better wire her to come on," suggested Jephson, practically. "We can
get Oberwaltzer to set the sentence over until the tenth if we say that
she is trying to come on here. Besides, just tell her to do it and if
she says she can't we'll see about the money then. But she'll be likely
to get it and maybe some towards the appeal too."

And forthwith a telegram and a letter, to Mrs. Griffiths, saying that
as yet no word had been said to Clyde but none-the-less his Lycurgus
relatives had declined to assist him further in any way. Besides, he
was to be sentenced not later than the tenth, and for his own future
welfare it was necessary that some one--preferably herself--appear.
Also that funds to cover the cost of an appeal be raised, or at least
the same guaranteed.

And then Mrs. Griffiths, on her knees praying to her God to help her.
Here, _now_, he must show his Almighty hand--his never-failing Mercy.
Enlightenment and help must come from somewhere---otherwise how was she
to get the fare, let alone raise money for Clyde's appeal?

Yet as she prayed--on her knees--a thought. The newspapers had been
hounding her for interviews. They had followed her here and there. Why
had she not gone to her son's aid? What did she think of this? What
of that? And now she said to herself, why should she not go to the
editor of one of the great papers so anxious to question her always and
tell him how great was her need? Also, that if he would help her to
reach her son in time to be with him on his day of sentence that she,
his mother, would report the same for him. These papers were sending
their reporters here, there--even to the trial, as she had read. Why
not her--his mother? Could she not speak and write too? How many, many
tracts had she not composed?

And so now to her feet--only to sink once more on her knees: "Thou hast
answered me, oh, my God!" she exclaimed. Then rising, she got out her
ancient brown coat, the commonplace brown bonnet with strings--based
on some mood in regard to religious livery--and at once proceeded to
the largest and most important newspaper. And because of the notoriety
of her son's trial she was shown directly to the managing editor,
who was as much interested as she was impressed and who listened to
her with respect and sympathy. He understood her situation and was
under the impression that the paper would be interested in this. He
disappeared for a few moments--then returned. She would be employed
as a correspondent for a period of three weeks, and after that until
further notice. Her expenses to and fro would be covered. An assistant,
into whose hands he would now deliver her would instruct her as to
the method of preparing and filing her communications. He would also
provide her with some ready cash. She might even leave to-night if she
chose--the sooner, the better. The paper would like a photograph or two
before she left. But as he talked, and as he noticed, her eyes were
closed--her head back. She was offering thanks to the God who had thus
directly answered her plea.




                            CHAPTER XXVIII


Bridgeburg and a slow train that set down a tired, distrait woman at
its depot after midnight on the eighth of December. Bitter cold and
bright stars. A lone depot assistant who on inquiry directed her to the
Bridgeburg Central House--straight up the street which now faced her,
then two blocks to her left after she reached the second street. The
sleepy night clerk of the Central House providing her instantly with a
room and, once he knew who she was, directing her to the county jail.
But she deciding after due rumination that now was not the hour. He
might be sleeping. She would go to bed and rise early in the morning.
She had sent him various telegrams. He knew that she was coming.

But as early as seven in the morning, rising, and by eight appearing
at the jail, letters, telegrams and credentials in hand. And the jail
officials, after examining the letters she carried and being convinced
of her identity, notifying Clyde of her presence. And he, depressed and
forlorn, on hearing this news, welcoming the thought of her as much
as at first he had dreaded her coming. For now things were different.
All the long grim story had been told. And because of the plausible
explanation which Jephson had provided him, he could face her perhaps
and say without a quaver that it was true--that he had not plotted to
kill Roberta--that he had not willingly left her to die in the water.
And then hurrying down to the visitor's room, where, by the courtesy of
Slack, he was permitted to talk with his mother alone.

On seeing her rise at his entrance, and hurrying to her, his troubled
intricate soul not a little dubious, yet confident also that it was to
find sanctuary, sympathy, help, perhaps--and that without criticism--in
her heart. And exclaiming with difficulty, as a lump thickened in
his throat: "Gee, Ma! I'm glad you've come." But she too moved for
words--her condemned boy in her arms--merely drawing his head to her
shoulder and then looking up. The Lord God had vouchsafed her this
much. Why not more? The ultimate freedom of her son--or if not that, at
least a new trial--a fair consideration of the evidence in his favor
which had not been had yet, of course. And so they stood for several
moments.

Then news of home, the reason for her presence, her duty as a
correspondent to interview him--later to appear with him in court
at the hour of his sentence--a situation over which Clyde winced.
Yet now, as he heard from her, his future was likely to depend on
her efforts alone. The Lycurgus Griffiths, for reasons of their own,
had decided not to aid him further. But she--if she were but able to
face the world with a sound claim--might still aid him. Had not the
Lord aided her thus far? Yet to face the world and the Lord with her
just plea she must know from him--now--the truth as to whether he had
intentionally or unintentionally struck Roberta--whether intentionally
or unintentionally he had left her to die. She had read the evidence
and his letters and had noted all the defects in his testimony. But
were those things as contended by Mason true or false?

Clyde, now as always overawed and thrown back on himself by that
uncompromising and shameless honesty which he had never been able quite
to comprehend in her, announced, with all the firmness that he could
muster--yet with a secret quavering chill in his heart--that he had
sworn to the truth. He had not done those things with which he had
been charged. He had not. But, alas, as she now said to herself, on
observing him, what was that about his eyes--a faint flicker perhaps.
He was not so sure--as self-convinced and definite as she had hoped--as
she had prayed he would be. No, no, there was something in his manner,
his words, as he spoke,--a faint recessive intonation, a sense of
something troubled, dubious, perhaps, which quite froze her now.

He was not positive enough. And so he might have plotted, in part
at least, as she had feared at first, when she had first heard of
this--might have even struck her on that lone, secret lake!--who could
tell? (the searing, destroying power of such a thought as that). And
that in the face of all his testimony to the contrary.

But "Jehovah, jirah, Thou wilt not require of a mother, in her own
and her son's darkest hour, that she doubt him,--make sure his death
through her own lack of faith? Oh, no--Thou wilt not. O Lamb of God,
Thou wilt not!" She turned; she bruised under her heel the scaly head
of this dark suspicion--as terrifying to her as his guilt was to
him. "O Absalom, my Absalom! Come, come, we will not entertain such
a thought. God himself would not urge it upon a mother." Was he not
here--her son--before her, declaring firmly that he had not done this
thing. She must believe--she would believe him utterly. She would--and
did--whatever fiend of doubt might still remain locked in the lowest
dungeon of her miserable heart. Come, come, the public should know how
she felt. She and her son would find a way. He must believe and pray.
Did he have a Bible? Did he read it? And Clyde having been long since
provided with a Bible by a prison worker, assured her that he had and
did read it.

But now she must go first to see his lawyers, next to file her
dispatch, after which she would return. But once out on the street
being immediately set upon by several reporters and eagerly questioned
as to the meaning of her presence here. Did she believe in her son's
innocence? Did she or did she not think that he had had a fair trial?
Why had she not come on before? And Mrs. Griffiths, in her direct and
earnest and motherly way, taking them into her confidence and telling
how as well as why she came to be here, also why she had not come
before.

But now that she was here she hoped to stay. The Lord would provide
the means for the salvation of her son, of whose innocence she was
convinced. Would they not ask God to help her? Would they not pray for
her success? And with the several reporters not a little moved and
impressed, assuring her that they would, of course, and thereafter
describing her to the world at large as she was--middle-aged, homely,
religious, determined, sincere and earnest and with a moving faith in
the innocence of her boy.

But the Griffiths of Lycurgus, on hearing this, resenting her coming as
one more blow. And Clyde, in his cell, on reading of it later, somewhat
shocked by the gross publicity now attending everything in connection
with him, yet, because of his mother's presence, resigned and after a
time almost happy. Whatever her faults or defects, after all she was
his mother, wasn't she? And she had come to his aid. Let the public
think what it would. Was he not in the shadow of death and she at least
had not deserted him. And with this, her suddenly manifested skill in
connecting herself in this way with a Denver paper, to praise her for.

She had never done anything like this before. And who knew but that
possibly, and even in the face of her dire poverty now, she might still
be able to solve this matter of a new trial for him and so save his
life? Who knew? And yet how much and how indifferently he had sinned
against her! Oh, how much. And still here she was--his mother still
anxious and tortured and yet loving and seeking to save his life by
writing up his own conviction for a western paper. No longer did the
shabby coat and the outlandish hat and the broad, immobile face and
somewhat stolid and crude gestures seem the racking and disturbing
things they had so little time since. She was his mother and she loved
him, and believed him and was struggling to save him.

On the other hand Belknap and Jephson on first encountering her were by
no means so much impressed. For some reason they had not anticipated so
crude and unlettered and yet convinced a figure. The wide, flat shoes.
The queer hat. The old brown coat. Yet somehow, after a few moments,
arrested by her earnestness and faith and love for her son and her
fixed, inquiring, and humanly clean and pure blue eyes in which dwelt
immaterial conviction and sacrifice with no shadow of turning.

Did they personally think her son innocent? She must know that first.
Or did they secretly believe that he was guilty? She had been so
tortured by all the contradictory evidence. God had laid a heavy cross
upon her and hers. Nevertheless, Blessed be His name! And both, seeing
and feeling her great concern, were quick to assure her that they were
convinced of Clyde's innocence. If he were executed for this alleged
crime it would be a travesty on justice.

Yet both, now that they saw her, troubled as to the source of any
further funds, her method of getting here, which she now explained,
indicating that she had nothing. And an appeal sure to cost not less
than two thousand. And Mrs. Griffiths, after an hour in their presence,
in which they made clear to her the basic cost of an appeal--covering
briefs to be prepared, arguments, trips to be made--asserting
repeatedly that she did not quite see how she was to do. Then suddenly,
and to them somewhat inconsequentially, yet movingly and dramatically,
exclaiming: "The Lord will not desert me. I know it. He has declared
himself unto me. It was His voice there in Denver that directed me to
that paper. And now that I am here, I will trust Him and He will guide
me."

But Belknap and Jephson merely looking at one another in unconvinced
and pagan astonishment. Such faith! An exhorter! An Evangelist, no
less! Yet to Jephson, here was an idea! There was the religious element
to be reckoned with everywhere--strong in its agreement with just
such faith. Assuming the Griffiths of Lycurgus to remain obdurate and
unmoved--why then--why then--and now that she was here--there were the
churches and the religious people generally. Might it not be possible,
with such a temperament and such faith as this, to appeal to the very
element that had hitherto most condemned Clyde and made his conviction
a certainty, for funds wherewith to carry this case to the court of
appeals? This lorn mother. Her faith in her boy.

Presto!

A lecture, at so much for admission, and in which, hard-pressed as
she was and could show, she would set forth the righteousness of her
boy's claim--seek to obtain the sympathy of the prejudiced public and
incidentally two thousand dollars or more with which this appeal could
be conducted.

And now Jephson, turning to her and laying the matter before her and
offering to prepare a lecture or notes--a condensation of his various
arguments--in fact, an entire lecture which she could re-arrange and
present as she chose--all the data which was the ultimate, basic truth
in regard to her son. And she, her brown cheeks flushing and her eyes
brightening, agreeing she would do it. She would try. She could do no
less than try. Verily, verily, was not this the Voice and Hand of God
in the darkest hour of her tribulation?

On the following morning Clyde was arraigned for sentence, with Mrs.
Griffiths given a seat near him and seeking, paper and pencil in hand,
to make notes of, for her, an unutterable scene, while a large crowd
surveyed her. His own mother! And acting as a reporter! Something
absurd, grotesque, insensitive, even ludicrous, about such a family
and such a scene. And to think the Griffiths of Lycurgus should be so
immediately related to them.

Yet Clyde sustained and heartened by her presence. For had she not
returned to the jail the previous afternoon with her plan? And as soon
as this was over--whatever the sentence might be--she would begin with
her work.

And so, and that almost in spite of himself, in his darkest hour,
standing up before Justice Oberwaltzer and listening first to a brief
recital of his charge and trial (which was pronounced by Oberwaltzer
to have been fair and impartial), then to the customary: "Have you
any cause which shows why the judgment of death should not now be
pronounced against you according to law?"--to which and to the
astonishment of his mother and the auditors (if not Jephson, who had
advised and urged him so to do), Clyde now in a clear and firm voice
replied:

"I am innocent of the crime as charged in the indictment. I never
killed Roberta Alden and therefore I think this sentence should not be
passed."

And then staring straight before him conscious only of the look of
admiration and love turned on him by his mother. For had not her son
now declared himself, here at this fatal moment, before all these
people? And his word here, if not in that jail, would be true, would it
not? Then her son was not guilty. He was not. He was not. Praised be
the name of the Lord in the highest. And deciding to make a great point
of this in her dispatch--so as to get it in all the papers, and in her
lecture afterwards.

However, Oberwaltzer, without the faintest sign of surprise or
perturbation, now continued: "Is there anything else you care to say?"

"No," replied Clyde, after a moment's hesitation.

"Clyde Griffiths," then concluded Oberwaltzer, "the judgment of the
Court is that you, Clyde Griffiths, for the murder in the first degree
of one, Roberta Alden, whereof you are convicted, be, and you are
hereby sentenced to the punishment of death; and it is ordered that,
within ten days after this day's session of Court, the Sheriff of this
county of Cataraqui deliver you, together with the warrant of this
Court, to the Agent and Warden of the State Prison of the State of New
York at Auburn, where you shall be kept in solitary confinement until
the week beginning Monday the 28th day of January, 19--, and, upon
some day within the week so appointed, the said Agent and Warden of
the State Prison of the State of New York at Auburn is commended to do
execution upon you, Clyde Griffiths, in the mode and manner prescribed
by the laws of the State of New York."

       *       *       *       *       *

And that done, a smile from Mrs. Griffiths to her boy and an answering
smile from Clyde to her. For since he had announced that he was not
guilty--_here_--her spirit had risen in the face of this sentence. He
was really innocent,--he must be, since he had declared it here. And
Clyde because of her smile saying to himself, his mother believed in
him now. She had not been swayed by all the evidence against him. And
this faith, mistaken or not, was now so sustaining--so needed. What he
had just said was true as he now saw it. He had not struck Roberta.
That _was_ true. And therefore he was not guilty. Yet Kraut and Slack
were once more seizing him and escorting him to the cell.

Immediately thereafter his mother seating herself at a press table
proceeded to explain to contiguous press representatives now curiously
gathering about her: "You mustn't think too badly of me, you gentlemen
of the papers. I don't know much about this but it is the only way I
could think of to be with my boy. I couldn't have come otherwise." And
then one lanky correspondent stepping up to say: "Don't worry, mother.
Is there any way I can help you? Want me to straighten out what you
want to say? I'll be glad to." And then sitting down beside her and
proceeding to help her arrange her impressions in the form in which he
assumed her Denver paper might like them. And others as well offering
to do anything they could--and all greatly moved.

Two days later, the proper commitment papers having been prepared and
his mother notified of the change but not permitted to accompany him,
Clyde was removed to Auburn, the western penitentiary of the State of
New York, where in the "death house" or "Murderers' Row," as it was
called--as gloomy and torturesome an inferno as one could imagine any
human compelled to endure--a combination of some twenty-two cells on
two separate levels--he was to be restrained until ordered retried or
executed.

Yet as he traveled from Bridgeburg to this place, impressive crowds
at every station--young and old--men, women and children--all seeking
a glimpse of the astonishingly youthly slayer. And girls and women,
under the guise of kindly interest, but which, at best, spelled little
more than a desire to achieve a facile intimacy with this daring and
romantic, if unfortunate figure, throwing him a flower here and there
and calling to him gayly and loudly as the train moved out from one
station or another:

"Hello, Clyde! Hope to see you soon again. Don't stay too long down
there." "If you take an appeal, you're sure to be acquitted. We hope
so, anyhow."

And with Clyde not a little astonished and later even heartened by this
seemingly favorable discrepancy between the attitude of the crowds in
Bridgeburg and this sudden, morbid, feverish and even hectic curiosity
here, bowing and smiling and even waving with his hand. Yet thinking,
none the less, "I am on the way to the death house and they can be so
friendly. It is a wonder they dare." And with Kraut and Sissell, his
guards, because of the distinction and notoriety of being both his
captors and jailors, as well also because of these unusual attentions
from passengers on the train and individuals in these throngs without
being themselves flattered and ennobled.

But after this one brief colorful flight in the open since his arrest,
past these waiting throngs and over winter sun-lit fields and hills of
snow that reminded him of Lycurgus, Sondra, Roberta, and all that he
had so kaleidoscopically and fatally known in the twenty months just
past, the gray and restraining walls of Auburn itself--with, once he
was presented to a clerk in the warden's office and his name and crime
entered in the books--himself assigned to two assistants, who saw to
it that he was given a prison bath and hair cut--all the wavy, black
hair he so much admired cut away--a prison-striped uniform and hideous
cap of the same material, prison underwear and heavy gray felt shoes
to quiet the restless prison tread in which in time he might indulge,
together with the number, 77221.

And so accoutered, immediately transferred to the death house proper,
where in a cell on the ground floor he was now locked--a squarish
light clean space, eight by ten feet in size and fitted with sanitary
plumbing as well as a cot bed, a table, a chair and a small rack for
books. And here then, while he barely sensed that there were other
cells about him--ranging up and down a wide hall--he first stood--and
then seated himself--now no longer buoyed by the more intimate and
sociable life of the jail at Bridgeburg--or those strange throngs and
scenes that had punctuated his trip here.

The hectic tensity and misery of these hours! That sentence to die;
that trip with all those people calling to him; that cutting of his
hair downstairs in that prison barber shop--and by a convict; the
suit and underwear that was now his and that he now had on. There was
no mirror here--or anywhere,--but no matter--he could feel how he
looked. This baggy coat and trousers and this striped cap. He threw it
hopelessly to the floor. For but an hour before he had been clothed in
a decent suit and shirt and tie and shoes, and his appearance had been
neat and pleasing as he himself had thought as he left Bridgeburg. But
now--how must he look? And to-morrow his mother would be coming--and
later Jephson or Belknap, maybe. God!

But worse--there, in that cell directly opposite him, a sallow and
emaciated and sinister-looking Chinaman in a suit exactly like his
own, who had come to the bars of his door and was looking at him out
of inscrutable slant eyes, but as immediately turning and scratching
himself--vermin, maybe, as Clyde immediately feared. There had been
bedbugs at Bridgeburg.

A Chinese murderer. For was not this the death house? But as good as
himself here. And with a garb like his own. Thank God visitors were
probably not many. He had heard from his mother that scarcely any
were allowed--that only she and Belknap and Jephson and any minister
he chose might come once a week. But now these hard, white-painted
walls brightly lighted by wide unobstructed skylights by day as he
could see--by incandescent lamps in the hall without at night--yet
all so different from Bridgeburg,--so much more bright or harsh
illuminatively. For there, the jail being old, the walls were a
gray-brown, and not very clean--the cells larger, the furnishings more
numerous--a table with a cloth on it at times, books, papers, a chess-
and checker-board--whereas here--here was nothing, these hard narrow
walls--the iron bars rising to a heavy solid ceiling above--and that
very, very heavy iron door which yet--like the one at Bridgeburg, had a
small hole through which food would be passed, of course.

But just then a voice from somewhere:

"Hey! we got a new one wid us, fellers! Ground tier, second cell,
east." And then a second voice: "You don't say. Wot's he like?" And a
third: "Wot's yer name, new man? Don't be scared. You ain't no worse
off than the rest of us." And then the first voice, answering number
two: "Kinda tall and skinny. A kid. Looks a little like mamma's boy,
but not bad at dat. Hey, you! Tell us your name!"

And Clyde, amazed and dumb and pondering. For how was one to take such
an introduction as this? What to say--what to do? Should he be friendly
with these men? Yet, his instinct for tact prompting him even here to
reply, most courteously and promptly: "Clyde Griffiths." And one of
the first voices continuing: "Oh, sure! We know who you are. Welcome,
Griffiths. We ain't as bad as we sound. We been readin' a lot about
you, up dere in Bridgeburg. We thought you'd be along pretty soon now."
And another voice: "You don't want to be too down. It ain't so worse
here. At least de place is all right--a roof over your head, as dey
say." And then a laugh from somewhere.

But Clyde, too horrified and sickened for words, was sadly gazing at
the walls and door, then over at the Chinaman, who, silent at his
door, was once more gazing at him. Horrible! Horrible! And they talked
to each other like that, and to a stranger among them so familiarly.
No thought for his wretchedness, his strangeness, his timidity--the
horror he must be suffering. But why should a murderer seem timid to
any one, perhaps, or miserable? Worst of all they had been speculating
_here_ as to how long it would be before he would be along which meant
that everything, concerning him was known here. Would they nag--or
bully--or make trouble for one unless one did just as they wished? If
Sondra, or any one of all the people he had known, should see or even
dream of him as he was here now ... God!--And his own mother was coming
to-morrow.

And then an hour later, now evening, a tall, cadaverous guard in a more
pleasing uniform, putting an iron tray with food on it through that
hole in the door. Food! And for him here. And that sallow, rickety
Chinaman over the way taking his. Whom had he murdered? How? And then
the savage scraping of iron trays in the various cells! Sounds that
reminded him more of hungry animals being fed than men. And some of
these men were actually talking as they ate and scraped. It sickened
him.

"Gee! It's a wonder them guys in the mush gallery couldn't think of
somepin else besides cold beans and fried potatoes and coffee."

"The coffee to-night ... oh, boy!... Now in the jail at
Buffalo--though...."

"Oh, cut it out," came from another corner. "We've heard enough about
the jail at Buffalo and your swell chow. You don't show any afternoon
tea appetite around here, I notice."

"Just the same," continued the first voice, "as I look back on't now,
it musta been pretty good. Dat's a way it seems, anyhow, now."

"Oh, Rafferty, do let up," called still another.

And then, presumably "Rafferty" once more, who said: "Now, I'll just
take a little siesta after dis--and den I'll call me chauffeur and go
for a little spin. De air to-night must be fine."

Then from still another hoarse voice: "Oh, you with your sick
imagination. Say, I'd give me life for a smoker. And den a good game of
cards."

"Do they play cards here?" thought Clyde.

"I suppose since Rosenstein was defeated for mayor here he won't play."

"Won't he, though?" This presumably from Rosenstein.

To Clyde's left, in the cell next to him, a voice, to a passing guard,
low and yet distinctly audible: "Psst! Any word from Albany yet?"

"No word, Herman."

"And no letter, I suppose."

"No letter."

The voice was very strained, very tense, very miserable, and after
this, silence.

A moment later, from another cell farther off, a voice from the
lowest hell to which a soul can descend--complete and unutterable
despair--"Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

And then from the tier above another voice: "Oh, Jesus! Is that farmer
going to begin again? I can't stand it. Guard! Guard! Can't you get
some dope for that guy?"

Once more the voice from the lowest: "Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Oh, my
God!"

Clyde was up, his fingers clinched. His nerves were as taut as cords
about to snap. A murderer! And about to die, perhaps. Or grieving over
some terrible thing like his own fate. Moaning--as he in spirit at
least had so often moaned there in Bridgeburg. Crying like that! God!
And there must be others!

And day after day and night after night more of this, no doubt, until,
maybe--who could tell--unless. But, oh, no! Oh, no! Not himself--not
that--not his day. Oh, no. A whole year must elapse before that could
possibly happen--or so Jephson had said. Maybe two. But, at that--! ...
in two years!!! He found himself stricken with an ague because of the
thought that even in so brief a time as two years....

That other room! It was in here somewhere too. This room was connected
with it. He knew that. There was a door. It led to that chair. _That
chair._

And then the voice again, as before, "Oh, my God! Oh, my God!"

He sank to his couch and covered his ears with his hands.




                             CHAPTER XXIX


The "death house" in this particular prison was one of those crass
erections and maintenances of human insensitiveness and stupidity
principally for which no one primarily was really responsible. Indeed,
its total plan and procedure were the results of a series of primary
legislative enactments, followed by decisions and compulsions as
devised by the temperaments and seeming necessities of various wardens,
until at last--by degrees and without anything worthy of the name of
thinking on any one's part--there had been gathered and was now being
enforced all that could possibly be imagined in the way of unnecessary
and really unauthorized cruelty or stupid and destructive torture. And
to the end that a man, once condemned by a jury, would be compelled
to suffer not alone the death for which his sentence called, but a
thousand others before that. For the very room by its arrangement, as
well as the rules governing the lives and actions of the inmates, was
sufficient to bring about this torture, willy-nilly.

It was a room thirty by forty feet, of stone and concrete and steel,
and surmounted some thirty feet from the floor by a skylight.
Presumably an improvement over an older and worse death house, with
which it was still connected by a door, it was divided lengthwise by a
broad passage, along which, on the ground floor, were twelve cells, six
on a side and eight by ten each and facing each other. And above again
a second tier of what were known as balcony cells--five on a side.

There was, however, at the center of this main passage--and dividing
these lower cells equally as to number--a second and narrower passage,
which at one end gave into what was now known as the Old Death House
(where at present only visitors to the inmates of the new Death House
were received), and at the other into the execution room in which stood
the electric chair. Two of the cells on the lower passage--those at the
junction of the narrower passage--faced the execution-room door. The
two opposite these, on the corresponding corners, faced the passage
that gave into the old Death House or what now by a large stretch of
the imagination, could be called the condemned men's reception room,
where twice weekly an immediate relative or a lawyer might be met. But
no others.

In the Old Death House (or present reception room), the cells still
there, and an integral part of this reception plan, were all in a row
and on one side only of a corridor, thus preventing prying inspection
by one inmate of another, and with a wire screen in front as well
as green shades which might be drawn in front of each cell. For, in
an older day, whenever a new convict arrived or departed, or took
his daily walk, or went for his bath, or was led eventually through
the little iron door to the west where formerly was the execution
chamber, these shades were drawn. He was not supposed to be seen by his
associates. Yet the old death house, because of this very courtesy and
privacy, although intense solitude, was later deemed inhuman and hence
this newer and better death house, as the thoughtful and condescending
authorities saw it, was devised.

In this, to be sure, were no such small and gloomy cells as those which
characterized the old, for there the ceiling was low and the sanitary
arrangements wretched, whereas in the new one the ceiling was high, the
rooms and corridors brightly lighted and in every instance no less than
eight by ten feet in size. But by contrast with the older room, they
had the enormous disadvantage of the unscreened if not uncurtained cell
doors.

Besides, by housing all together in two such tiers as were here, it
placed upon each convict the compulsion of enduring all the horrors
of all the vicious, morbid or completely collapsed and despairing
temperaments about him. No true privacy of any kind. By day--a blaze of
light pouring through an over-arching skylight high above the walls. By
night--glistening incandescents of large size and power which flooded
each nook and cranny of the various cells. No privacy, no games other
than cards and checkers--the only ones playable without releasing the
prisoners from their cells. Books, newspapers, to be sure, for all who
could read or enjoy them under the circumstances. And visits--mornings
and afternoons, as a rule, from a priest, and less regularly from
a rabbi and a Protestant minister, each offering his sympathies or
services to such as would accept them.

But the curse of the place was not because of these advantages, such as
they were, but in spite of them--this unremitted contact, as any one
could see, with minds now terrorized and discolored by the thought of
an approaching death that was so near for many that it was as an icy
hand upon brow or shoulder. And none--whatever the bravado-capable of
enduring it without mental or physical deterioration in some form. The
glooms--the strains--the indefinable terrors and despairs that blew
like winds or breaths about this place and depressed or terrorized all
by turns! They were manifest at the most unexpected moments, by curses,
sighs, tears even, calls for a song--for God's sake!--or the most
unintended and unexpected yells or groans.

Worse yet, and productive of perhaps the most grinding and destroying
of all the miseries here--the transverse passage leading between the
old death house on the one hand and the execution-chamber on the other.
For this from time to time--alas, how frequently--was the scene or
stage for at least a part of the tragedy that was here so regularly
enacted--the final business of execution.

For through this passage, on his last day, a man was transferred
from his _better_ cell in the new building, where he might have been
incarcerated for so much as a year or two, to one of the older ones
in the old death house, in order that he might spend his last hours
in solitude, although compelled at the final moment, none-the-less
(the death march), to retrace his steps along this narrower cross
passage--and where all might see--into the execution chamber at the
other end of it.

Also at any time, in going to visit a lawyer or relative brought into
the old death house for this purpose, it was necessary to pass along
the middle passage to this smaller one and so into the old death
house, there to be housed in a cell, fronted by a wire screen two feet
distant, between which and the cell proper a guard must sit while a
prisoner and his guest (wife, son, mother, daughter, brother, lawyer)
should converse--the guard hearing all. No handclasps, no kisses,
no friendly touches of any kind--not even an intimate word that a
listening guard might not hear. And when the fatal hour for any one had
at last arrived, every prisoner--if sinister or simple, sensitive or of
rugged texture--was actually if not intentionally compelled to hear if
not witness the final preparations--the removal of the condemned man
to one of the cells of the older death house, the final and perhaps
weeping visit of a mother, son, daughter, father.

No thought in either the planning or the practice of all this of the
unnecessary and unfair torture for those who were brought here, not to
be promptly executed, by any means, but rather to be held until the
higher courts should have passed upon the merits of their cases--an
appeal.

At first, of course, Clyde sensed little if anything of all this. In
so far as his first day was concerned, he had but tasted the veriest
spoonful of it all. And to lighten or darken his burden his mother came
at noon the very next day. Not having been permitted to accompany him,
she had waited over for a final conference with Belknap and Jephson,
as well as to write in full her personal impressions in connection
with her son's departure--(Those nervously searing impressions!) And
although anxious to find a room somewhere near the penitentiary, she
hurried first to the office of the penitentiary immediately upon
her arrival at Auburn and, after presenting an order from Justice
Oberwaltzer as well as a solicitous letter from Belknap and Jephson
urging the courtesy of a private interview with Clyde to begin with at
least, she was permitted to see her son in a room entirely apart from
the old death house. For already the warden himself had been reading of
her activities and sacrifices and was interested in seeing not only her
but Clyde also.

But so shaken was she by Clyde's so sudden and amazingly changed
appearance here that she could scarcely speak upon his entrance, even
in recognition of him, so blanched and gray were his cheeks and so
shadowy and strained his eyes. His head clipped that way! This uniform!
And in this dreadful place of iron gates and locks and long passages
with uniformed guards at every turn!

For a moment she winced and trembled, quite faint under the strain,
although previous to this she had entered many a jail and larger
prison--in Kansas City, Chicago, Denver--and delivered tracts and
exhortations and proffered her services in connection with anything she
might do. But this--this! Her own son! Her broad, strong bosom began to
heave. She looked, and then turned her heavy, broad back to hide her
face for the nonce. Her lips and chin quivered. She began to fumble in
the small bag she carried for her handkerchief at the same time that
she was muttering to herself: "My God--why hast thou forsaken me?" But
even as she did so there came the thought--no, no, he must not see her
so. What a way was this to do--and by her tears weaken him. And yet
despite her great strength she could not now cease at once but cried on.

And Clyde seeing this, and despite his previous determination to bear
up and say some comforting and heartening word to his mother, now began:

"But you mustn't, Ma. Gee, you mustn't cry. I know it's hard on you.
But I'll be all right. Sure, I will. It isn't as bad as I thought." Yet
inwardly saying: "Oh, God, how bad!"

And Mrs. Griffiths adding aloud: "My poor boy! My beloved son! But we
mustn't give way. No. No. 'Behold, I will deliver Thee out of the
snares of the wicked.' God has not deserted either of us. And He will
not--that I know. 'He leadeth me by the still waters.' 'He restoreth
my soul.' We must put our trust in Him. Besides," she added, briskly
and practically, as much to strengthen herself as Clyde, "haven't I
already arranged for an appeal? It is to be made yet this week. They're
going to file a notice. And that means that your case can't even be
considered under a year. But it is just the shock of seeing you so. You
see, I wasn't quite prepared for it." She straightened her shoulders
and now looked up and achieved a brave if strained smile. "The warden
here seems very kind, but still, somehow, when I saw you just now----"

She dabbed at her eyes which were damp from this sudden and terrific
storm, and to divert herself as well as him she talked of the so very
necessary work before her. Messrs. Belknap and Jephson had been so
encouraging to her just before she left. She had gone to their office
and they had urged her and him to be of good cheer. And now she was
going to lecture, and at once, and would soon have means to do with
that way. Oh, yes. And Mr. Jephson would be down to see him one of
these days soon. He was by no means to feel that the legal end of all
this had been reached. Far from it. The recent verdict and sentence
was sure to be reversed and a new trial ordered. The recent one was a
farce, as he knew.

And as for herself--as soon as she found a room near the prison--she
was going to the principal ministers of Auburn and see if she could
not secure a church, or two, or three, in which to speak and plead
his cause. Mr. Jephson was mailing her some information she could
use within a day or two. And after that, other churches in Syracuse,
Rochester, Albany, Schenectady--in fact many cities in the east--until
she had raised the necessary sum. But she would not neglect him. She
would see him at least once a week and would write him a letter every
other day, or maybe even daily if she could. She would talk to the
warden. So he must not despair. She had much hard work ahead of her,
of course, but the Lord would guide her in all that she undertook. She
knew that. Had He not already shown his gracious and miraculous mercy?

Clyde must pray for her and for himself. Read Isaiah. Read the
psalms--the 23rd and the 51st and the 91st daily. Also Habbakuk. "Are
there walls against the Hand of the Lord?" And then after more tears,
an utterly moving and macerating scene, at last achieving her departure
while Clyde, shaken to his soul by so much misery, returned to his
cell. His mother. And at her age--and with so little money--she was
going out to try to raise the money necessary to save him. And in the
past he had treated her so badly--as he now saw.

He sat down on the side of his cot and held his head in his hands
the while outside the prison--the iron door of the same closed and
only a lonely room and the ordeal of her proposed lecture tour ahead
of her--Mrs. Griffiths paused--by no means so assured or convinced
of all she had said to Clyde. To be sure God would aid her. He must.
Had He ever failed her yet--completely? And now--here--in her darkest
hour,--her son's! Would He?

She paused for a moment a little later in a small parking-place,
beyond the prison, to stare at the tall, gray walls, the watch
towers with armed guards in uniform, the barred windows and doors. A
penitentiary. And her son was now within--worse yet, in that confined
and narrow death house. And doomed to die in an electric chair.
Unless--unless----But, no, no--that should not be. It could not be.
That appeal. The money for it. She must busy herself as to that
at once--not think or brood or despair. Oh, no. "My shield and my
buckler." "My Light and my Strength." "Oh, Lord, Thou art my strength
and my deliverance. In Thee will I trust." And then dabbing at her eyes
once more and adding: "Oh, Lord, I believe. Help Thou mine unbelief."

So Mrs. Griffiths, alternately praying and crying as she walked.




                              CHAPTER XXX


But after this the long days in prison for Clyde. Except for a weekly
visit from his mother, who, once she was entered upon her work, found
it difficult to see him more often than that--traveling as she did
in the next two months between Albany and Buffalo and even New York
City--but without the success she had at first hoped for. For in the
matter of her appeal to the churches and the public--as most wearily
(and in secret if not to Clyde)--and after three weeks of more or less
regional and purely sectarian trying, she was compelled to report
the Christians at least were very indifferent--not as Christian as
they should be. For as all, but more particularly the ministers of
the region, since they most guardedly and reservedly represented
their congregations in every instance, unanimously saw it, here was a
notorious and, of course, most unsavory trial which had resulted in a
conviction with which the more conservative element of the country--if
one could judge by the papers at least, were in agreement.

Besides who was this woman--as well as her son? An exhorter--a secret
preacher--one, who in defiance of all the tenets and processes of
organized and historic, as well as hieratic, religious powers and forms
(theological seminaries, organized churches and their affiliations
and product--all carefully and advisedly and legitimately because
historically and dogmatically interpreting the word of God) choosing
to walk forth and without ordination after any fashion conduct an
unauthorized and hence nondescript mission. Besides if she had remained
at home, as a good mother should, and devoted herself to her son,
as well as to her other children--their care and education--would
this--have happened?

And not only that--but according to Clyde's own testimony in this
trial, had he not been guilty of adultery with this girl--whether he
had slain her or not? A sin almost equal to murder in many minds. Had
he not confessed it? And was an appeal for a convicted adulterer--if
not murderer (who could tell as to that?) to be made in a church?
No,--no Christian church was the place to debate, and for a charge,
the merits of this case, however much each Christian of each and every
church might sympathize with Mrs. Griffiths personally--or resent any
legal injustice that might have been done her son. No, no. It was not
morally advisable. It might even tend to implant in the minds of the
young some of the details of the crime.

Besides, because of what the newspapers had said of her coming east to
aid her son and the picture that she herself presented in her homely
garb, it was assumed by most ministers that she was one of those
erratic persons, not a constituent of any definite sect, or schooled
theology, who tended by her very appearance to cast contempt on true
and pure religion.

And in consequence, each in turn--not hardening his heart exactly--but
thinking twice--and deciding no--there must be some better way--less
troublesome to Christians,--a public hall, perhaps, to which
Christians, if properly appealed to through the press, might well
repair. And so Mrs. Griffiths, in all but one instance, rejected
in that fashion and told to go elsewhere--while in regard to the
Catholics--instinctively--because of prejudice--as well as a certain
dull wisdom not inconsistent with the facts--she failed even to so much
as think of them. The mercies of Christ as interpreted by the holder
of the sacred keys of St. Peter, as she knew, were not for those who
failed to acknowledge the authority of the Vicar of Christ.

And therefore after many days spent in futile knockings here and there
she was at last compelled--and in no little depression, to appeal to
a Jew who controlled the principal moving picture theater of Utica--a
sinful theater. And from him, this she secured free for a morning
address on the merits of her son's case--"A mother's appeal for her
son," it was entitled--which netted her, at twenty-five cents per
person--the amazing sum of two hundred dollars. At first this sum,
small as it was, so heartened her that she was now convinced that
soon--whatever the attitude of the orthodox Christians--she would earn
enough for Clyde's appeal. It might take time--but she would.

Nevertheless, as she soon discovered, there were other factors to be
considered--carfare, her own personal expenses in Utica and elsewhere,
to say nothing of certain very necessary sums to be sent to Denver to
her husband, who had little or nothing to go on at present, and who,
because of this very great tragedy in the family, had been made ill--so
ill indeed that the letters from Frank and Julia were becoming very
disturbing. It was possible that he might not get well at all. Some
help was necessary there.

And in consequence, in addition to paying her own expenses here,
Mrs. Griffiths was literally compelled to deduct other reducing
sums from this, her present and only source of income. It was
terrible--considering Clyde's predicament--but nevertheless must she
not sustain herself in every way in order to win to victory? She could
not reasonably abandon her husband in order to aid Clyde alone.

Yet in the face of this--as time went on, the audiences growing
smaller and smaller until at last they constituted little more than a
handful--and barely paying her expenses--although through this process
none-the-less she finally managed to put aside--over and above all her
expenses--eleven hundred dollars.

Yet, also, just at this time, and in a moment of extreme anxiety, Frank
and Julia wiring her that if she desired to see Asa again she had
better come home at once. He was exceedingly low and not expected to
live. Whereupon, played upon by these several difficulties and there
being no single thing other than to visit him once or twice a week--as
her engagements permitted--which she could do for Clyde, she now
hastily conferred with Belknap and Jephson, setting forth her extreme
difficulties.

And these, seeing that eleven hundred dollars of all she had thus far
collected was to be turned over to them, now, in a burst of humanity,
advised her to return to her husband. Decidedly Clyde would do well
enough for the present seeing that there was an entire year--or at
least ten months before it was necessary to file the record and the
briefs in the case. In addition another year assuredly must elapse
before a decision could be reached. And no doubt before that time the
additional part of the appeal fee could be raised. Or, if not--well,
then--anyhow (seeing how worn and distrait she was at this time) she
need not worry. Messrs. Belknap and Jephson would see to it that her
son's interests were properly protected. They would file an appeal and
make an argument--and do whatever else was necessary to insure her son
a fair hearing at the proper time.

And with that great burden off her mind--and two last visits to Clyde
in which she assured him of her determination to return as speedily as
possible--once Asa was restored to strength again and she could see her
way to financing such a return--she now departed only to find that,
once she was in Denver once more, it was not so easy to restore him by
any means.

And in the meantime Clyde was left to cogitate on and make the best of
a world that at its best was a kind of inferno of mental ills--above
which--as above Dante's might have been written--"abandon hope--ye who
enter here."

The somberness of it. Its slow and yet searing psychic force! The
obvious terror and depression--constant and unshakeable of those who,
in spite of all their courage or their fears, their bravado or their
real indifference (there were even those) were still compelled to think
and wait. For, now, in connection with this coldest and bitterest form
of prison life he was in constant psychic, if not physical contact,
with twenty other convicted characters of varying temperaments and
nationalities, each one of whom, like himself, had responded to some
heat or lust or misery of his nature or his circumstances. And with
murder, a mental as well as physical explosion, as the final outcome or
concluding episode which, being detected, and after what horrors and
wearinesses of mental as well as legal contest and failure, such as
fairly paralleled his own, now found themselves islanded--immured--in
one or another of these twenty-two iron cages and awaiting--awaiting
what?

How well they knew. And how well he knew. And here with what loud
public rages and despairs or prayers--at times. At others--what
curses--foul or coarse jests--or tales addressed to all--or ribald
laughter--or sighings and groanings in these later hours when the
straining spirit having struggled to silence, there was supposedly rest
for the body and the spirit.

In an exercise court, beyond the farthermost end of the long corridor,
twice daily, for a few minutes each time, between the hours of ten and
five--the various inmates in groups of five or six were led forth--to
breathe, to walk, to practice calisthenics--or run and leap as they
chose. But always under the watchful eyes of sufficient guards to
master them in case they attempted rebellion in any form. And to this
it was, beginning with the second day, that Clyde himself was led, now
with one set of men and now with another. But with the feeling at first
strong in him that he could not share in any of these public activities
which, nevertheless, these others--and in spite of their impending
doom--seemed willing enough to indulge in.

The two dark-eyed sinister-looking Italians, one of whom had slain
a girl because she would not marry him; the other who had robbed
and then slain and attempted to burn the body of his father-in-law
in order to get money for himself and his wife! And big Larry
Donahue--square-headed, square-shouldered--big of feet and hands, an
overseas soldier, who, being ejected from a job as night watchman
in a Brooklyn factory, had lain for the foreman who had discharged
him--and then killed him on an open common somewhere at night, but
without the skill to keep from losing a service medal which had
eventually served to betray and identify him. Clyde had learned all
this from the strangely indifferent and non-committal, yet seemingly
friendly guards, who were over these cells by night and by day--two
and two, turn about--who relieved each other every eight hours. And
police officer Riordan of Rochester, who had killed his wife because
she was determined to leave him--and now, himself, was to die. And
Thomas Mowrer, the young "farmer" or farm hand, as he really was, whom
Clyde on his first night had heard moaning--a man who had killed his
employer with a pitchfork--and was soon to die now--as Clyde heard, and
who walked and walked, keeping close to the wall--his head down, his
hands behind his back--a rude, strong, loutish man of about thirty,
who looked more beaten and betrayed than as though he had been able to
torture or destroy another. Clyde wondered about him--his real guilt.

Again Miller Nicholson, a lawyer of Buffalo of perhaps forty years of
age who was tall and slim and decidedly superior looking--a refined,
intellectual type, one you would have said was no murderer--any more
than Clyde--to look at, who, none-the-less was convicted of poisoning
an old man of great wealth and afterwards attempting to convert his
fortune to his own use. Yet decidedly with nothing in his look or
manner, as Clyde felt, at least, which marked him as one so evil--a
polite and courteous man, who, noting Clyde on the very first morning
of his arrival here, approached and said: "Scared?" But in the most
gentle and solicitous tone, as Clyde could hear and feel, even though
he stood blank and icy--afraid almost to move--or think. Yet in this
mood--and because he felt so truly done for, replying: "Yes, I guess
I am." But once it was out, wondering why he had said it (so weak a
confession) and afterwards something in the man heartening him, wishing
that he had not.

"Your name's Griffiths, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, my name's Nicholson. Don't be frightened. You'll get used to
it." He achieved a cheerful, if wan smile. But his eyes--they did not
seem like that--no smile there.

"I don't suppose I'm so scared either," replied Clyde, trying to modify
his first, quick and unintended confession.

"Well, that's good. Be game. We all have to be here--or the whole place
would go crazy. Better breathe a little. Or walk fast. It'll do you
good."

He moved away a few paces and began exercising his arms while Clyde
stood there, saying--almost loudly--so shaken was he still: "We all
have to be or the whole place would go crazy." That was true, as he
could see and feel after that first night. Crazy, indeed. Tortured
to death, maybe, by being compelled to witness these terrible and
completely destroying--and for each--impending tragedies. But how long
would he have to endure this? How long could he?

In the course of a day or two, again he found this death house was not
quite like that either--not all terror--on the surface at least. It was
in reality--and in spite of impending death in every instance, a place
of taunt and jibe and jest--even games, arguments on every conceivable
topic from death and women to athletics, the stage--all forms of human
contest of skill--or the lack of it, as far at least as the general low
intelligence of the group permitted.

For the most part, as soon as breakfast was over--among those who
were not called upon to join the first group for exercise, there were
checkers or cards, two games that were played--not with a single set
of checkers or a deck of cards between groups released from their
cells, but by one of the ever present keepers providing two challenging
prisoners (if it were checkers) with one checker-board but no checkers.
They were not needed. Thereafter the opening move was called by one. "I
move from F 2 to E 1"--each square being numbered--each side lettered.
The moves checked with a pencil.

Thereafter the second party--having recorded this move on his own board
and having studied the effect of it on his own general position, would
call: "I move from E 7 to F 5." If more of those present decided to
join in this--either on one side or the other, additional boards and
pencils were passed to each signifying his desire. Then Shorty Bristol,
desiring to aid "Dutch" Swighort, three cells down, might call: "I
wouldn't do that, Dutch. Wait a minute, there's a better move than
that." And so on with taunts, oaths, laughter, arguments, according to
the varying fortunes and difficulties of the game. And so, too, with
cards. These were played with each man locked in his cell, yet quite as
successfully.

But Clyde did not care for cards--or for these jibing and coarse hours
of conversation. There was for him--and with the exception of the
speech of one--Nicholson--alone, too much ribald and even brutal talk
which he could not appreciate. But he was drawn to Nicholson. He was
beginning to think after a time--a few days--that this lawyer--his
presence and companionship during the exercise hour--whenever they
chanced to be in the same set--could help him to endure this. He was
the most intelligent and respectable man here. The others were all so
different--taciturn at times--and for the most part so sinister, crude
or remote.

But then and that not more than a week after his coming here--and
when, because of his interest in Nicholson, he was beginning to feel
slightly sustained at least--the execution of Pasquale Cutrone, of
Brooklyn, an Italian, convicted of the slaying of his brother for
attempting to seduce his wife. He had one of the cells nearest the
transverse passage, so Clyde learned after arriving, and had in part
lost his mind from worrying. At any rate he was invariably left in his
cell when the others--in groups of six--were taken for exercise. But
the horror of his emaciated face, as Clyde passed and occasionally
looked in--a face divided into three grim panels by two gutters or
prison lines of misery that led from the eyes to the corners of the
mouth.

Beginning with his, Clyde's, arrival, as he learned, Pasquale had begun
to pray night and day. For already, before that, he had been notified
of the approximate date of his death which was to be within the week.
And after that he was given to crawling up and down his cell on his
hands and knees, kissing the floor, licking the feet of a brass Christ
on a cross that had been given him. Also he was repeatedly visited by
an Italian brother and sister fresh from Italy and for whose benefit
at certain hours, he was removed to the old death house. But as all
now whispered, Pasquale was mentally beyond any help that might lie in
brothers or sisters.

All night long and all day long, when they were not present, he did
this crawling to and fro and praying, and those who were awake and
trying to read to pass the time, were compelled to listen to his
mumbled prayers, the click of the beads of a rosary on which he was
numbering numberless Our Fathers and Hail Marys.

And though there were voices which occasionally said: "Oh, for Christ's
sake--if he would only sleep a little"--still on, on. And the tap of
his forehead on the floor--in prayer, until at last the fatal day
preceding the one on which he was to die, when Pasquale was taken from
his cell here and escorted to another in the old death house beyond
and where, before the following morning, as Clyde later learned, last
farewells, if any, were to be said. Also he was to be allowed a few
hours in which to prepare his soul for his maker.

But throughout that night what a strange condition was this that
settled upon all who were of this fatal room. Few ate any supper as
the departing trays showed. There was silence--and after that mumbled
prayers on the part of some--not so greatly removed by time from
Pasquale's fate, as they knew. One Italian, sentenced for the murder
of a bank watchman, became hysterical, screamed, hashed the chair and
table of his cell against the bars of his door, tore the sheets of his
bed to shreds and even sought to strangle himself before eventually
he was overpowered and removed to a cell in a different part of the
building to be observed as to his sanity.

As for the others, throughout this excitement, one could hear them
walking and mumbling or calling to the guards to do something. And as
for Clyde, never having experienced or imagined such a scene, he was
literally shivering with fear and horror. All through the last night
of this man's life he lay on his pallet, chasing phantoms. So this was
what death was like here; men cried, prayed, they lost their minds--yet
the deadly process was in no way halted, for all their terror. Instead,
at ten o'clock and in order to quiet all those who were left, a cold
lunch was brought in and offered--but with none eating save the
Chinaman over the way.

And then at four the following morning--the keepers in charge of the
deadly work coming silently along the main passage and drawing the
heavy green curtains with which the cells were equipped so that none
might see the fatal procession which was yet to return along the
transverse passage from the old death house to the execution room. And
yet with Clyde and all the others waking and sitting up at the sound.

It was here, the execution! The hour of death was at hand. This was
the signal. In their separate cells, many of those who through fear
or contrition, or because of innate religious convictions, had been
recalled to some form of shielding or comforting faith, were upon
their knees praying. Among the rest were others who merely walked
or muttered. And still others who screamed from time to time in an
incontrollable fever of terror.

As for Clyde he was numb and dumb. Almost thoughtless. They were going
to kill that man in that other room in there. That chair--that chair
that he had so greatly feared this long while was in there--was so
close now. Yet his time as Jephson and his mother had told him was so
long and distant as yet--if ever--ever it was to be--if ever--ever----

But now other sounds. Certain walkings to and fro. A cell door clanking
somewhere. Then plainly the door leading from the old death house into
this room opening--for there was a voice--several voices indistinct as
yet. Then another voice a little clearer as if some one praying. That
tell-tale shuffling of feet as a procession moved across and through
that passage. "Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy."

"Mary, Mother of Grace, Mary, Mother of Mercy, St. Michael, pray for
me; my good Angel, pray for me."

"Holy Mary, pray for me; St. Joseph, pray for me. St. Ambrose, pray for
me; all ye saints and angels, pray for me."

"St. Michael, pray for me; my good Angel, pray for me."

It was the voice of the priest accompanying the doomed man and reciting
a litany. Yet he was no longer in his right mind they said. And yet
was not that his voice mumbling too? It was. Clyde could tell. He had
heard it too much recently. And now that other door would be opened. He
would be looking through it--this condemned man--so soon to be dead--at
it--seeing it--that cap--those straps. Oh, he knew all about those by
now though they should never come to be put upon him, maybe.

"Good-by, Cutrone!" It was a hoarse, shaky voice from some near-by
cell--Clyde could not tell which. "Go to a better world than this." And
then other voices: "Good-by, Cutrone. God keep you--even though you
can't talk English."

The procession had passed. That door was shut. He was in there now.
They were strapping him in, no doubt. Asking him what more he had to
say--he who was no longer quite right in his mind. Now the straps must
be fastened on, surely. The cap pulled down. In a moment, a moment,
surely----

And then, although Clyde did not know or notice at the moment--a sudden
dimming of the lights in this room--as well as over the prison--an
idiotic or thoughtless result of having one electric system to supply
the death voltage and the incandescence of this and all other rooms.
And instantly a voice calling:

"There she goes. That's one. Well, it's all over with him."

And a second voice: "Yes, he's topped off, poor devil."

And then after the lapse of a minute perhaps, a second dimming lasting
for thirty seconds--and finally a third dimming.

"There--sure--that's the end now."

"Yes. He knows what's on the other side now."

Thereafter silence--a deadly hush with later some murmured prayers
here and there. But with Clyde cold and with a kind of shaking ague.
He dared not think--let alone cry. So that's how it was. They drew the
curtains. And then--and then. He was gone now. Those three dimmings of
the lights. Sure, those were the flashes. And after all those nights at
prayer. Those moanings! Those beatings of his head! And only a minute
ago he had been alive--walking by there. But now dead. And some day
he--he!--how could he be sure that he would not? How could he?

He shook and shook, lying on his couch, face down. The keepers came
and ran up the curtains--as sure and secure in their lives apparently
as though there was no death in the world. And afterwards he could
hear them talking--not to him so much--he had proved too reticent thus
far--but to some of the others.

Poor Pasquale. This whole business of the death penalty was all wrong.
The warden thought so. So did they. He was working to have it abolished.

But that man! His prayers! And now he was gone. His cell over there
was empty and another man would be put in it--to go too, later. Some
one--many--like Cutrone, like himself--had been in this one--on this
pallet. He sat up--moved to the chair. But he--they--had sat on
that--too. He stood up--only to sink down on the pallet again. "God!
God! God! God!" he now exclaimed to himself--but not aloud--and yet not
unlike that other man who had so terrorized him on the night of his
arrival here and who was still here. But he would go too. And all of
these others--and himself maybe--unless--unless----

He had seen his first man die.




                             CHAPTER XXXI


In the meantime, however, Asa's condition had remained serious, and it
was four entire months before it was possible for him to sit up again
or for Mrs. Griffiths to dream of resuming her lecturing scheme. But by
that time, public interest in her and her son's fate was considerably
reduced. No Denver paper was interested to finance her return for
anything she could do for them. And as for the public in the vicinity
of the crime, it remembered Mrs. Griffiths and her son most clearly,
and in so far as she was concerned, sympathetically--but only, on the
other hand, to think of him as one who probably was guilty and in that
case, being properly punished for his crime--that it would be as well
if an appeal were not taken--or--if it were--that it be refused. These
guilty criminals with their interminable appeals!

And with Clyde where he was, more and more executions--although as he
found--and to his invariable horror, no one ever became used to such
things there; farmhand Mowrer for the slaying of his former employer;
officer Riordan for the slaying of his wife--and a fine upstanding
officer too but a minute before his death; and afterwards, within the
month, the going of the Chinaman, who seemed, for some reason, to
endure a long time (and without a word in parting to any one--although
it was well known that he spoke a few words of English). And after him
Larry Donahue, the overseas soldier--with a grand call--just before the
door closed behind: "Good-by, boys. Good luck."

And after him again--but, oh--that was so hard; so much closer to
Clyde--so depleting to his strength to think of bearing this deadly
life here without--Miller Nicholson--no less. For after five months in
which they had been able to walk and talk and call to each other from
time to time from their cells--and Nicholson had begun to advise him as
to books to read--as well as one important point in connection with his
own case--on appeal--or in the event of any second trial, i.e.,--that
the admission of Roberta's letters as evidence, as they stood, at
least, be desperately fought on the ground that the emotional force
of them was detrimental in the case of any jury anywhere, to a calm
unbiased consideration of the material facts presented by them--and
that instead of the letters being admitted as they stood they should be
digested for the facts alone and that digest--and that only offered to
the jury. "If your lawyers can get the Court of Appeals to agree to the
soundness of that you will win your case sure."

And Clyde at once, after inducing a personal visit on the part of
Jephson, laying this suggestion before him and hearing him say that it
was sound and that he and Belknap would assuredly incorporate it in
their appeal.

Yet not so long after that the guard, after locking his door on
returning from the courtyard whispered, with a nod in the direction of
Nicholson's cell, "His next. Did he tell you? Within three days."

And at once Clyde shriveling--the news playing upon him as an icy
and congealing breath. For he had just come from the courtyard with
him where they had walked and talked of another man who had just
been brought in--a Hungarian of Utica who was convicted of burning
his paramour--in a furnace--then confessing it--a huge, rough, dark,
ignorant man with a face like a gargoyle. And Nicholson saying he was
more animal than man, he was sure. Yet no word about himself. And in
_three days_! And he could walk and talk as though there was nothing
to happen, although, according to the guard, he had been notified the
night before.

And the next day the same--walking and talking as though nothing had
happened--looking up at the sky and breathing the air. Yet Clyde, his
companion, too sick and feverish--too awed and terrified from merely
thinking on it all night to be able to say much of anything as he
walked but thinking: "And he can walk here. And be so calm. What sort
of a man is this?" and feeling enormously overawed and weakened.

The following morning Nicholson did not appear--but remained in his
cell destroying many letters he had received from many places. And near
noon, calling to Clyde who was two cells removed from him on the other
side: "I'm sending you something to remember me by." But not a word as
to his going.

And then the guard bringing two books--Robinson Crusoe and the Arabian
Nights. That night Nicholson's removal from his cell--and the next
morning before dawn the curtains; the same procession passing through,
which was by now an old story to Clyde. But somehow this was so
different--so intimate--so cruel. And as he passed, calling: "God bless
you all. I hope you have good luck and get out." And then that terrible
stillness that followed the passing of each man.

And Clyde thereafter--lonely--terribly so. Now there was no one
here--no one--in whom he was interested. He could only sit and
read--and think--or pretend to be interested in what these others
said, for he could not really be interested in what they said. His was
a mind that, freed from the miseries that had now befallen him, was
naturally more drawn to romance than to reality. Where he read at all
he preferred the light, romantic novel that pictured some such world as
he would have liked to share, to anything that even approximated the
hard reality of the world without, let alone this. Now what was going
to become of him eventually? So alone was he! Only letters from his
mother, brother and sisters. And Asa getting no better, and his mother
not able to return as yet--things were so difficult there in Denver.
She was seeking a religious school in which to teach somewhere--while
nursing Asa. But she was asking the Rev. Duncan McMillan, a young
minister whom she had encountered in Syracuse, in the course of her
work there, to come and see him. He was so spiritual and so kindly. And
she was sure, if he would but come, that Clyde would find him a helpful
and a strong support in these, his dark and weary hours when she could
no longer be with him herself.

For while Mrs. Griffiths was first canvassing the churches and
ministers of this section for aid for her son, and getting very little
from any quarter, she had met the Rev. Duncan McMillan in Syracuse,
where he was conducting an independent, non-sectarian church. He was
a young, and like herself or Asa, unordained minister or evangelist
of, however, far stronger and more effective temperament religiously.
At the time Mrs. Griffiths appeared on the scene, he had already read
much concerning Clyde and Roberta--and was fairly well satisfied that,
by the verdict arrived at, justice had probably been done. However,
because of her great sorrow and troubled search for aid he was greatly
moved.

He, himself, was a devoted son. And possessing a highly poetic and
emotional though so far repressed or sublimated sex nature, he was one
who, out of many in this northern region, had been touched and stirred
by the crime of which Clyde was presumed to be guilty. Those highly
emotional and tortured letters of Roberta's! Her seemingly sad life at
Lycurgus and Biltz! How often he had thought of those before ever he
had encountered Mrs. Griffiths. The simple and worthy virtues which
Roberta and her family had seemingly represented in that romantic,
pretty country world from which they had derived. Unquestionably
Clyde was guilty. And yet here, suddenly, Mrs. Griffiths, very lorn
and miserable and maintaining her son's innocence. At the same time
there was Clyde in his cell doomed to die. Was it possible that by any
strange freak or circumstance--a legal mistake had been made and Clyde
was not as guilty as he appeared?

The temperament of McMillan was exceptional--tense, exotic. A present
hour St. Bernard, Savonarola, St. Simeon, Peter the Hermit. Thinking
of life, thought, all forms and social structures as the word, the
expression, the breath of God. No less. Yet room for the Devil and
his anger--the expelled Lucifer--going to and fro in the earth. Yet,
thinking on the Beatitudes, on the Sermon on the Mount, on St. John and
his direct seeing and interpretation of Christ and God. "He that is not
with me is against me; and he that gathereth not with me, scattereth."
A strange, strong, tense, confused, merciful and too, after his fashion
beautiful soul; sorrowing with misery yearning toward an impossible
justice.

Mrs. Griffiths in her talks with him had maintained that he was to
remember that Roberta was not wholly guiltless. Had she not sinned
with her son? And how was he to exculpate her entirely? A great legal
mistake. Her son was being most unjustly executed--and by the pitiful
but none-the-less romantic and poetic letters of this girl which
should never have been poured forth upon a jury of men at all. They
were, as she now maintained, incapable of judging justly or fairly
where anything sad in connection with a romantic and pretty girl was
concerned. She had found that to be true in her mission work.

And this idea now appealed to the Rev. Duncan as important and very
likely true. And perhaps, as she now contended, if only some powerful
and righteous emissary of God would visit Clyde and through the force
of his faith and God's word make him see--which she was sure he did
not yet, and which she in her troubled state, and because she was his
mother, could not make him,--the blackness and terror of his sin with
Roberta as it related to his immortal soul here and hereafter,--then
in gratitude to, reverence and faith in God, would be washed away,
all his iniquity, would it not? For irrespective of whether he had
committed the crime now charged against him or not--and she was
convinced that he had not--was he not, nevertheless, in the shadow of
the electric chair--in danger at any time through death (even before a
decision should be reached) of being called before his maker--and with
the deadly sin of adultery, to say nothing of all his lies and false
conduct, not only in connection with Roberta but that other girl there
in Lycurgus, upon him? And by conversion and contrition should he not
be purged of this? If only his soul were saved--she and he too would be
at peace in this world.

And after a first and later a second pleading letter from Mrs.
Griffiths, in which, after she had arrived at Denver, she set forth
Clyde's loneliness and need of counsel and aid, the Rev. Duncan setting
forth for Auburn. And once there--having made it clear to the warden
what his true purpose was--the spiritual salvation of Clyde's soul,
for his own, as well as his mother and God's sake, he was at once
admitted to the death house and to Clyde's presence--the very door of
his cell, where he paused and looked through, observing Clyde lying
most wretchedly on his cot trying to read. And then McMillan outlining
his tall, thin figure against the bars and without introduction of any
kind, beginning, his head bowed in prayer:

    "Have mercy upon me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness;
    according unto the multitude of thy tender mercies, blot out my
    transgressions."

    "Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity and cleanse me from my sin."

    "For I acknowledge my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me."

    "Against Thee, Thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy
    sight, that Thou mightest be justified when Thou speakest and be
    clear when Thou judgest."

    "Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother
    conceive me."

    "Behold, Thou desireth truth in the inward parts; and in the hidden
    part Thou shalt make me to know wisdom."

    "Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean; wash me, and I shall
    be whiter than snow."

    "Make me to hear joy and gladness; that the bones which Thou hast
    broken may rejoice."

    "Hide thy face from my sins, and blot out all mine iniquities."

    "Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within
    me."

    "Cast me not away from Thy presence; and take not Thy holy spirit
    away from me."

    "Restore unto me the joy of Thy salvation, and uphold me with Thy
    free spirit."

    "Then will I teach transgressors Thy ways; and sinners will be
    converted unto Thee."

    "Deliver me from blood guiltiness, O God, thou God of my salvation,
    and my tongue shall sing aloud of Thy righteousness."

    "O Lord, open Thou my lips; and my mouth shall show forth Thy
    praise."

    "For Thou desirest not sacrifice; else would I give it; Thou
    delightest not in burnt offering."

    "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit; a broken and a contrite
    heart, O God, Thou wilt not despise.

He paused--but only after he had intoned, and in a most sonorous and
really beautiful voice the entire 51st Psalm. And then looking up,
because Clyde, much astonished, had first sat up and then risen--and
curiously enticed by the clean and youthful and vigorous if pale figure
had approached nearer the cell door, he now added:

"I bring you, Clyde, the mercy and the salvation of your God. He has
called on me and I have come. He has sent me that I may say unto you
though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white--like snow. Though
they be red, like crimson, they shall be as wool. Come now, let us
reason together with the Lord."

He paused and stared at Clyde tenderly. A warm, youthful, half smile,
half romantic, played about his lips. He liked the youth and refinement
of Clyde, who, on his part was plainly taken by this exceptional
figure. Another religionist, of course. But the Protestant chaplain who
was here was nothing like this man--neither so arresting nor attractive.

"Duncan McMillan is my name," he said, "and I come from the work of the
Lord in Syracuse. He has sent me--just as he sent your mother to me.
She has told me all that she believes. I have read all that you have
said. And I know why you are here. But it is to bring you spiritual joy
and gladness that I am here."

And he suddenly quoted from Psalms 13:2, "'How shall I take counsel
in my soul, having sorrow in my heart, daily.' That is from Psalms
13:2. And here is another thing that now comes to me as something that
I should say to you. It is from the Bible, too--the Tenth Psalm: 'He
hath said in his heart, I shall not be moved, for I shall never be in
adversity.' But you are in adversity, you see. We all are, who live in
sin. And here is another thing that comes to me, just now, to say. It
is from Psalm 10: 11: 'He hath said in his heart, God hath forgotten.
He hideth his face.' And I am told to say to you that He does not hide
his face. Rather I am told to quote this to you from the Eighteenth
Psalm: 'They prevented me in the day of my calamity, but the Lord was
my stay. He sent from above, he took me, he drew me out of many waters.'

"'He delivered me from my strong enemy.

"'And from them which hated me, for they were too many for me.

"'He brought me forth also unto a large place.

"'He delivered me because he delighted in me.'

"Clyde, those are all words addressed to you. They come to me here to
say to you just as though they were being whispered to me. I am but the
mouthpiece for these words spoken direct to you. Take counsel with your
own heart. Turn from the shadow to the light. Let us break these bonds
of misery and gloom; chase these shadows and this darkness. You have
sinned. The Lord can and will forgive. Repent. Join with him who has
shaped the world and keeps it. He will not spurn your faith; he will
not neglect your prayers. Turn--in yourself--in the confines of this
cell--and say: 'Lord, help me. Lord, hear Thou my prayer. Lord, lighten
mine eyes!'

"Do you think there is no God--and that He will not answer you? Pray.
In your trouble turn to Him--not me--or any other. But to Him. Pray.
Speak to Him. Call to Him. Tell Him the truth and ask for help. As
surely as you are here before me--and if in your heart you truly repent
of any evil you have done--_truly, truly_, you will hear and feel
Him. He will take your hand. He will enter this cell and your soul.
You will know Him by the peace and the light that will fill your mind
and heart. Pray. And if you need me again to help you in any way--to
pray with you--or to do you any service of any kind--to cheer you
in your loneliness--you have only to send for me; drop me a card. I
have promised your mother and I will do what I can. The warden has my
address." He paused, serious and conclusive in his tone--because up to
this time, Clyde had looked more curious and astonished than anything
else.

At the same time because of Clyde's extreme youthfulness and a certain
air of lonely dependence which marked him ever since his mother and
Nicholson had gone: "I'll always be in easy reach. I have a lot of
religious work over in Syracuse but I'll be glad to drop it at any time
that I can really do anything more for you." And here he turned as if
to go.

But Clyde, now taken by him--his vital, confident and kindly manner--so
different to the tense, fearful and yet lonely life here, called after
him: "Oh, don't go just yet. Please don't. It's very nice of you to
come and see me and I'm obliged to you. My mother wrote me you might.
You see, it's very lonely here. I haven't thought much of what you were
saying, perhaps, because I haven't felt as guilty as some think I am.
But I've been sorry enough. And certainly any one in here pays a good
deal." His eyes looked very sad and strained.

And at once, McMillan, now deeply touched for the first time replied:
"Clyde, you needn't worry. I'll come to see you again within a week,
because now I see you need me. I'm not asking you to pray because I
think you are guilty of the death of Roberta Alden. I don't know.
You haven't told me. Only you and God know what your sins and your
sorrows are. But I do know you need spiritual help and He will give you
that--oh, fully. 'The Lord will be a refuge for the oppressed; a refuge
in time of trouble.'"

He smiled as though he were now really fond of Clyde. And Clyde feeling
this and being intrigued by it, replied that there wasn't anything just
then that he wanted to say except to tell his mother that he was all
right--and make her feel a little better about him, maybe, if he could.
Her letters were very sad, he thought. She worried too much about him.
Besides he, himself, wasn't feeling so very good--not a little run down
and worried these days. Who wouldn't be in his position? Indeed, if
only he could win to spiritual peace through prayer, he would be glad
to do it. His mother had always urged him to pray--but up to now he was
sorry to say he hadn't followed her advice very much. He looked very
distrait and gloomy--the marked prison pallor having long since settled
on his face.

And the Reverend Duncan, now very much touched by his state, replied:
"Well, don't worry, Clyde. Enlightenment and peace are surely going to
come to you. I can see that. You have a Bible there, I see. Open it
anywhere in Psalms and read. The 51st, 91st, 23rd. Open to St. John.
Read it all--over and over. Think and pray--and think on all the things
about you--the moon, the stars, the sun, the trees, the sea--your own
beating heart, your body and strength--and ask yourself who made them.
How did they come to be? Then, if you can't explain them, ask yourself
if the one who made them and you--whoever he is, whatever he is,
wherever he is, isn't strong and wise enough and kind enough to help
you when you need help--provide you with light and peace and guidance,
when you need them. Just ask yourself what of the Maker of all this
certain reality. And then ask Him--the Creator of it all--to tell you
how and what to do. Don't doubt. Just ask and see. Ask in the night--in
the day. Bow your head and pray and see. Verily, He will not fail you.
I know because I have that peace."

He stared at Clyde convincingly--then smiled and departed. And Clyde,
leaning against his cell door, began to wonder. The Creator! His
Creator! The Creator of the World!... Ask and see----!

And yet--there was still lingering here in him that old contempt of his
for religion and its fruits,--the constant and yet fruitless prayers
and exhortations of his father and mother. Was he going to turn to
religion now, solely because he was in difficulties and frightened like
these others? He hoped not. Not like that, anyway.

Just the same the mood, as well as the temperament of the Reverend
Duncan McMillan--his young, forceful, convinced and dramatic body,
face, eyes, now intrigued and then moved Clyde as no religionist or
minister in all his life before ever had. He was interested, arrested
and charmed by the man's faith--whether at once or not at all--ever--he
could come to put the reliance in it that plainly this man did.




                             CHAPTER XXXII


The personal conviction and force of such an individual as the Reverend
McMillan, while in one sense an old story to Clyde and not anything
which so late as eighteen months before could have moved him in any
way (since all his life he had been accustomed to something like it),
still here, under these circumstances, affected him differently.
Incarcerated, withdrawn from the world, compelled by the highly
circumscribed nature of this death house life to find solace or relief
in his own thoughts, Clyde's, like every other temperament similarly
limited, was compelled to devote itself either to the past, the present
or the future. But the past was so painful to contemplate at any point.
It seared and burned. And the present (his immediate surroundings) as
well as the future with its deadly fear of what was certain to happen
in case his appeal failed, were two phases equally frightful to his
waking consciousness.

What followed then was what invariably follows in the wake of every
tortured consciousness. From what it dreads or hates, yet knows or
feels to be unescapable, it takes refuge in that which may be hoped
for--or at least imagined. But what was to be hoped for or imagined?
Because of the new suggestion offered by Nicholson, a new trial was all
that he had to look forward to, in which case, and assuming himself to
be acquitted thereafter, he could go far, far away--to Australia--or
Africa--or Mexico--or some such place as that, where, under a different
name--his old connections and ambitions relating to that superior
social life that had so recently intrigued him, laid aside, he might
recover himself in some small way. But directly in the path of that
hopeful imagining, of course, stood the death's head figure of a
refusal on the part of the Court of Appeals to grant him a new trial.
Why not--after that jury at Bridgeburg? And then--as in that dream
in which he turned from the tangle of snakes to face the tramping
rhinoceros with its two horns--he was confronted by that awful thing in
the adjoining room--that chair! That chair! Its straps and its flashes
which so regularly dimmed the lights in this room. He could not bear
to think of his entering there--ever. And yet supposing his appeal was
refused! Away! He would like to think no more about it.

But then, apart from that what was there to think of? It was that
very question that up to the time of the arrival of the Rev. Duncan
McMillan, with his plea for a direct and certainly (as he insisted)
fruitful appeal to the Creator of all things, that had been definitely
torturing Clyde. Yet see--how simple was his solution!

"It is given unto you to know the Peace of God," he insisted, quoting
Paul and thereafter sentences from Corinthians, Galatians, Ephesians,
on how easy it was--if Clyde would but repeat and pray as he had asked
him to--for him to know and delight in the "peace that passeth all
understanding." It was with him, all around him. He had but to seek;
confess the miseries and errors of his heart, and express contrition.
"Ask, and ye shall receive; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it
shall be opened unto you. For _every one_ that asketh, receiveth; and
he that seeketh, findeth; and to him that knocketh it shall be opened.
For what man is there of you whom, if his son ask bread, will give him
a stone; or, if he ask fish, will give him a serpent?" So he quoted,
beautifully and earnestly.

And yet before Clyde always was the example of his father and mother.
What had they? It had not availed them much--praying. Neither, as he
noticed here, did it appear to avail or aid these other condemned men,
the majority of whom lent themselves to the pleas or prayers of either
priest or rabbi or minister, one and the other of whom was about daily.
Yet were they not led to their death just the same--and complaining
or protesting, or mad like Cutrone, or indifferent? As for himself,
up to this he had not been interested by any of these. Bunk. Notions.
Of what? He could not say. Nevertheless, here was the appealing Rev.
Duncan McMillan. His mild, serene eyes. His sweet voice. His faith. It
moved and intrigued Clyde deeply. Could there--could there? He was so
lonely--so despairing--so very much in need of help.

Was it not also true (the teaching of the Rev. McMillan--influencing
him to that extent at least) that if he had led a better life--had paid
more attention to what his mother had said and taught--not gone into
that house of prostitution in Kansas City--or pursued Hortense Briggs
in the evil way that he had--or after her, Roberta--had been content to
work and save, as no doubt most men were--would he not be better off
than he now was? But then again, there was the fact or truth of those
very strong impulses and desires within himself that were so very,
very hard to overcome. He had thought of those, too, and then of the
fact that many other people like his mother, his uncle, his cousin,
and this minister here, did not seem to be troubled by them. And yet
also he was given to imagining at times that perhaps it was because of
superior mental and moral courage in the face of passions and desires,
equivalent to his own, which led these others to do so much better. He
was perhaps just willfully devoting himself to these other thoughts and
ways, as his mother and McMillan and most every one else whom he had
heard talk since his arrest seemed to think.

What did it all mean? Was there a God? Did He interfere in the affairs
of men as Mr. McMillan was now contending? Was it possible that one
could turn to Him, or at least some creative power, in some such
hour as this and when one had always ignored Him before, and ask for
aid? Decidedly one needed aid under such circumstances--so alone and
ordered and controlled by law--not man--since these, all of them, were
the veriest servants of the law. But would this mysterious power be
likely to grant aid? Did it really exist and hear the prayers of men?
The Rev. McMillan insisted yes. "He hath said God hath forgotten; He
hideth His face. But He has not forgotten. He has not hidden His face."
But was that true? Was there anything to it? Tortured by the need of
some mental if not material support in the face of his great danger,
Clyde was now doing what every other human in related circumstances
invariably does--seeking, and yet in the most indirect and involute
and all but unconscious way, the presence or existence at least of
some superhuman or supernatural personality or power that could and
would aid him in some way--beginning to veer--however slightly or
unconsciously as yet,--toward the personalization and humanization
of forces, of which, except in the guise of religion, he had not the
faintest conception. "The Heavens declare the Glory of God, and the
Firmament sheweth His handiwork." He recalled that as a placard in one
of his mother's mission windows. And another which read: "For He is Thy
life and Thy length of Days." Just the same--and far from it as yet,
even in the face of his sudden predisposition toward the Rev. Duncan
McMillan, was he seriously moved to assume that in religion of any kind
was he likely to find surcease from his present miseries?

And yet the weeks and months going by--the Rev. McMillan calling
regularly thereafter, every two weeks at the longest, sometimes every
week and inquiring after his state, listening to his wants, advising
him as to his health and peace of mind. And Clyde, anxious to retain
his interest and visits, gradually, more and more, yielding himself to
his friendship and influence. That high spirituality. That beautiful
voice. And quoting always such soothing things. "Brethren _now_ are we
the children of God. And it doth not yet appear what we shall be; but
we know that when He shall appear we shall be like Him, for we shall
see Him as He is. And every man that has this hope in him purifieth
himself even as He is pure."

"Hereby know that we dwell in Him and He in us, because He hath given
us of His spirit."

"For ye are bought with a price."

"Of His own will begot He us with the word of truth, and we should be a
kind of first fruits of his creatures. And every good and every perfect
gift is from above and cometh down from the Father of lights, with whom
is no variableness, neither shadow of turning."

"Draw nigh unto God and He will draw nigh unto you."

He was inclined, at times, to feel that there might be peace and
strength--aid, even--who could say, in appealing to this power. It was
the force and the earnestness of the Rev. McMillan operating upon him.

And yet, the question of repentance--and with it confession. But to
whom? The Rev. Duncan McMillan, of course. He seemed to feel that it
was necessary for Clyde to purge his soul to him--or some one like
him--a material and yet spiritual emissary of God. But just there was
the trouble. For there was all of that false testimony he had given in
the trial, yet on which had been based his appeal. To go back on that
now, and when his appeal was pending. Better wait, had he not, until he
saw how that appeal had eventuated.

But, ah, how shabby, false, fleeting, insincere. To imagine that any
God would bother with a person who sought to dicker in such a way. No,
no. That was not right either. What would the Rev. McMillan think of
him if he knew what he was thinking?

But again there was the troubling question in his own mind as to his
real guilt--the amount of it. True there was no doubt that he had
plotted to kill Roberta there at first--a most dreadful thing as he
now saw it. For the complications and the fever in connection with
his desire for Sondra having subsided somewhat, it was possible on
occasion now for him to reason without the desperate sting and tang
of the mental state that had characterized him at the time when he
was so immediately in touch with her. Those terrible, troubled days
when in spite of himself--as he now understood it (Belknap's argument
having cleared it up for him) he had burned with that wild fever
which was not unakin in its manifestations to a form of insanity. The
beautiful Sondra! The glorious Sondra! The witchery and fire of her
smile then! Even now that dreadful fever was not entirely out but only
smoldering--smothered by all of the dreadful things that had since
happened to him.

Also, it must be said on his behalf now, must it not--that never, under
any other circumstances, would he have succumbed to any such terrible
thought or plot as that--to kill any one--let alone a girl like
Roberta--unless he had been so infatuated--lunatic, even. But had not
the jury there at Bridgeburg listened to that plea with contempt? And
would the Court of Appeals think differently? He feared not. And yet
was it not true? Or was he all wrong? Or what? Could the Rev. McMillan
or any one else to whom he would explain tell him as to that? He would
like to talk to him about it--confess everything perhaps, in order to
get himself clear on all this. Further, there was the fact that having
plotted for Sondra's sake (and God, if no one else, knew that) he
still had not been able to execute it. And that had not been brought
out in the trial, because the false form of defense used permitted
no explanation of the real truth then--and yet it was a mitigating
circumstance, was it not--or would the Rev. McMillan think so? A lie
had to be used, as Jephson saw it. But did that make it any the less
true?

There were phases of this thing, the tangles and doubts involved in
that dark, savage plot of his, as he now saw and brooded on it, which
were not so easily to be disposed of. Perhaps the two worst were,
first, that in bringing Roberta there to that point on that lake--that
lone spot--and then growing so weak and furious with himself because
of his own incapacity to do evil, he had frightened her into rising
and trying to come to him. And that in the first instance made it
possible for her to be thus accidentally struck by him and so made
him, in part at least, guilty of that blow--or did it?--a murderous,
sinful blow in that sense. Maybe. What would the Rev. McMillan say to
that? And since because of that she had fallen into the water, was he
not guilty of her falling? It was a thought that troubled him very
much now--his constructive share of guilt in all that. Regardless of
what Oberwaltzer had said there at the trial in regard to his swimming
away from her--that if she had accidentally fallen in the water, it
was no crime on his part, supposing he refused to rescue her,--still,
as he now saw it, and especially when taken in connection with all
that he had thought in regard to Roberta up to that moment, it was a
crime just the same, was it not? Wouldn't God--McMillan--think so? And
unquestionably, as Mason had so shrewdly pointed out at the trial, he
might have saved her. And would have too, no doubt, if she had been
Sondra--or even the Roberta of the summer before. Besides, the fear of
her dragging him down had been no decent fear. (It was at nights in his
bunk at this time that he argued and reasoned with himself, seeing that
McMillan was urging him now to repent and make peace with his God.)
Yes, he would have to admit that to himself. Decidedly and instantly
he would have sought to save her life, if it had been Sondra. And such
being the case, he would have to confess that--if he confessed at all
to the Rev. McMillan--or to whomever else one told the truth--when one
did tell it--the public at large perhaps. But such a confession once
made, would it not surely and truly lead to his conviction? And did he
want to convict himself now and so die?

No, no, better wait a while perhaps--at least until the Court of
Appeals had passed on his case. Why jeopardize his case when God
already knew what the truth was? Truly, truly he was sorry. He could
see how terrible all this was now--how much misery and heartache, apart
from the death of Roberta, he had caused. But still--still--was not
life sweet? Oh, if he could only get out! Oh, if he could only go away
from here--never to see or hear or feel anything more of this terrible
terror that now hung over him. The slow coming dark--the slow coming
dawn. The long night! The sighs--the groans. The tortures by day and by
night until it seemed at times as though he should go mad; and would
perhaps except for McMillan, who now appeared devoted to him--so kind,
appealing and reassuring, too, at times. He would just like to sit down
some day--here or somewhere--and tell him all and get him to say how
really guilty, if at all, he thought him to be--and if so guilty to get
him to pray for him. At times he felt so sure that his mother's and the
Rev. Duncan McMillan's prayers would do him so much more good with this
God than any prayers of his own would. Somehow he couldn't pray yet.
And at times hearing McMillan pray, softly and melodiously, his voice
entering through the bars--or, reading from Galatians, Thessalonians,
Corinthians, he felt as though he must tell him everything, and soon.

But the days going by until finally one day six weeks after--and
when because of his silence in regard to himself, the Rev. Duncan
was beginning to despair of ever affecting him in any way toward his
proper contrition and salvation--a letter or note from Sondra. It
came through the warden's office and by the hand of the Rev. Preston
Guilford, the Protestant chaplain of the prison, but was not signed.
It was, however, on good paper, and because the rule of the prison
so requiring had been opened and read. Nevertheless, on account of
the nature of the contents which seemed to both the warden and the
Rev. Guilford to be more charitable and punitive than otherwise, and
because plainly, if not verifiably, it was from that Miss X of repute
or notoriety in connection with his trial, it was decided, after due
deliberation, that Clyde should be permitted to read it--even that it
was best that he should. Perhaps it would prove of value as a lesson.
The way of the transgressor. And so it was handed to him at the close
of a late fall day--after a long and dreary summer had passed (soon
a year since he had entered here). And he taking it. And although it
was typewritten with no date nor place save on the envelope, which was
postmarked New York--yet sensing somehow that it might be from her. And
growing decidedly nervous--so much so that his hand trembled slightly.
And then reading--over and over and over--during many days thereafter:
"Clyde--This is so that you will not think that some one once dear to
you has utterly forgotten you. She has suffered much, too. And though
she can never understand how you could have done as you did, still,
even now, although she is never to see you again, she is not without
sorrow and sympathy and wishes you freedom and happiness."

But no signature--no trace of her own handwriting. She was afraid to
sign her name and she was too remote from him in her mood now to let
him know where she was. New York! But it might have been sent there
from anywhere to mail. And she would not let him know--would never let
him know--even though he died here later, as well he might. His last
hope--the last trace of his dream vanished. Forever! It was at that
moment, as when night at last falls upon the faintest remaining gleam
of dusk in the west. A dim, weakening tinge of pink--and then the dark.

He seated himself on his cot. The wretched stripes of his uniform and
his gray felt shoes took his eye. A felon. These stripes. These shoes.
This cell. This uncertain, threatening prospect so very terrible to
contemplate at any time. And then this letter. So this was the end of
all that wonderful dream! And for this he had sought so desperately to
disengage himself from Roberta--even to the point of deciding to slay
her. This! This! He toyed with the letter, then held it quite still.
Where was she now? Who in love with, maybe? She had had time to change
perhaps. She had only been captivated by him a little, maybe. And then
that terrible revelation in connection with him had destroyed forever,
no doubt, all sentiment in connection with him. She was free. She had
beauty--wealth. Now some other----

He got up and walked to his cell door to still a great pain. Over the
way, in that cell the Chinaman had once occupied, was a negro--Wash
Higgins. He had stabbed a waiter in a restaurant, so it was said, who
had refused him food and then insulted him. And next to him was a
young Jew. He had killed the proprietor of a jewelry store in trying
to rob it. But he was very broken and collapsed now that he was here
to die--sitting for the most part all day on his cot, his head in
his hands. Clyde could see both now from where he stood--the Jew
holding his head. But the negro on his cot, one leg above the other,
smoking--and singing--

    "Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin' ... hmp!
      Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin' ... hmp!
      Oh, big wheel ro-a-lin' ... hmp!
              Foh me! Foh me!"

And then Clyde, unable to get away from his own thoughts, turning again.

Condemned to die! He. And this was the end as to Sondra. He could
feel it. Farewell. "Although she is never to see you again." He threw
himself on his couch--not to weep but to rest--he felt so weary.
Lycurgus. Fourth Lake. Bear Lake. Laughter--kisses--smiles. What was to
have been in the fall of the preceding year. And now--a year later.

But then,--that young Jew. There was some religious chant into which he
fell when his mental tortures would no longer endure silence. And oh,
how sad. Many of the prisoners had cried out against it. And yet, oh,
how appropriate now, somehow.

"I have been evil. I have been unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh! Oh! I have
been unfaithful. My heart has been wicked. I have joined with those who
have done evil things. Oh! Oh! Oh! I have stolen. I have been false. I
have been cruel! Oh! Oh! Oh!"

And the voice of Big Tom Rooney sentenced for killing Thomas Tighe, a
rival for the hand of an underworld girl. "For Christ's sake! I know
you feel bad. But so do I. Oh, for God's sake, don't do that!"

Clyde, on his cot, his thoughts responding rhythmically to the chant of
the Jew--and joining with him silently--"I have been evil. I have been
unkind. I have lied. Oh! Oh! Oh! I have been unfaithful. My heart has
been wicked. I have joined with those who have done evil things. Oh!
Oh! Oh! I have been false. I have been cruel. I have sought to murder.
Oh! Oh! Oh! And for what? A vain--impossible dream! Oh! Oh! Oh! ... Oh!
Oh! Oh! ..."

When the guard, an hour later, placed his supper on the shelf in the
door, he made no move. Food! And when the guard returned in another
thirty minutes, there it was, still untouched, as was the Jew's--and
was taken away in silence. Guards knew when blue devils had seized the
inmates of these cages. They couldn't eat. And there were times, too,
when even guards couldn't eat.




                            CHAPTER XXXIII


The depression resulting even after two days was apparent to the
Reverend McMillan, who was concerned to know why. More recently, he
had been led to believe by Clyde's manner, his visits, if not the fact
that the totality of his preachments, had not been greeted with as
much warmth as he would have liked, that by degrees Clyde was being
won to his own spiritual viewpoint. With no little success, as it had
seemed to him, he had counseled Clyde as to the folly of depression and
despair. "What! Was not the peace of God within his grasp and for the
asking. To one who sought God and found Him, as he surely would, if he
sought, there could be no sorrow, but only joy. 'Hereby know we that we
dwell in Him, and He in us, because He hath given us of His spirit.'"
So he preached or read,--until finally--two weeks after receiving the
letter from Sondra and because of the deep depression into which he had
sunk on account of it, Clyde was finally moved to request of him that
he try to induce the warden to allow him to be taken to some other cell
or room apart from this room or cell which seemed to Clyde to be filled
with too many of his tortured thoughts, in order that he might talk
with him and get his advice. As he told the Reverend McMillan, he did
not appear to be able to solve his true responsibility in connection
with all that had so recently occurred in his life, and because of
which he seemed not to be able to find that peace of mind of which
McMillan talked so much. Perhaps ...,--there must be something wrong
with his viewpoint. Actually he would like to go over the offense of
which he was convicted and see if there was anything wrong in his
understanding of it. He was not so sure now. And McMillan, greatly
stirred,--an enormous spiritual triumph, this--as he saw it--the true
reward of faith and prayer, at once proceeding to the warden, who
was glad enough to be of service in such a cause. And he permitted
the use of one of the cells in the old death house for as long as he
should require, and with no guard between himself and Clyde--one only
remaining in the general hall outside.

And there Clyde began the story of his relations with Roberta and
Sondra. Yet because of all that had been set forth at the trial, merely
referring to most of the evidence--apart from his defense--the change
of heart, as so; afterwards dwelling more particularly on the fatal
adventure with Roberta in the boat. Did the Reverend McMillan--because
of the original plotting--and hence the original intent--think him
guilty?--especially in view of his obsession over Sondra--all his
dreams in regard to her--did that truly constitute murder? He was
asking this because, as he said, it was as he had done--not as his
testimony at the trial had indicated that he had done. It was a lie
that he had experienced a change of heart. His attorneys had counseled
that defense as best, since they did not feel that he was guilty, and
had thought that plan the quickest route to liberty. But it was a lie.
In connection with his mental state also there in the boat, before and
after her rising and attempting to come to him,--and that blow, and
after,--he had not told the truth either--quite. That unintentional
blow, as he now wished to explain, since it affected his efforts at
religious meditation,--a desire to present himself honestly to his
Creator, if at all (he did not then explain that as yet he had scarcely
attempted to so present himself)--there was more to it than he had been
able yet to make clear, even to himself. In fact even now to himself
there was much that was evasive and even insoluble about it. He had
said that there had been no anger--that there had been a change of
heart. But there had been no change of heart. In fact, just before she
had risen to come to him, there had been a complex troubled state,
bordering, as he now saw it, almost upon trance or palsy, and due--but
he could scarcely say to what it was due, exactly. He had thought at
first--or afterwards--that it was partly due to pity for Roberta--or,
at least the shame of so much cruelty in connection with her--his
plan to strike her. At the same time there was anger, too,--hate
maybe--because of her determination to force him to do what he did
not wish to do. Thirdly--yet he was not so sure as to that--(he had
thought about it so long and yet he was not sure even now)--there might
have been fear as to the consequences of such an evil deed--although,
just at that time, as it seemed to him now, he was not thinking of the
consequences--or of anything save his inability to do as he had come to
do--and feeling angry as to that.

Yet in the blow--the accidental blow that had followed upon her rising
and attempting to come to him, had been some anger against her for
wanting to come near him at all. And that it was perhaps--he was
truly not sure, even now, that had given that blow its so destructive
force. It was so afterward, anyhow, that he was compelled to think of
it. And yet there was also the truth that in rising he was seeking
to save her--even in spite of his hate. That he was also, for the
moment at least, sorry for that blow. Again, though, once the boat
had upset and both were in the water--in all that confusion, and when
she was drowning, he had been moved by the thought: "Do nothing."
For thus he would be rid of her. Yes, he had so thought. But again,
there was the fact that all through, as Mr. Belknap and Mr. Jephson
had pointed out, he had been swayed by his obsession for Miss X, the
super motivating force in connection with all of this. But now, did
the Reverend McMillan, considering all that went before and all that
came after--the fact that the unintentional blow still had had anger in
it--angry dissatisfaction with her--really--and that afterwards he had
not gone to her rescue--as now--honestly--and truly as he was trying
to show--did he think that that constituted murder--mortal blood guilt
for which spiritually, as well as legally, he might be said to deserve
death? Did he? He would like to know for his own soul's peace--so that
he could pray, maybe.

The Reverend McMillan hearing all this--and never in his life before
having heard or having had passed to him so intricate and elusive and
strange a problem--and because of Clyde's faith in and regard for
him, enormously impressed. And now sitting before him quite still
and pondering most deeply, sadly and even nervously--so serious and
important was this request for an opinion--something which, as he knew,
Clyde was counting on to give him earthly and spiritual peace. But,
none-the-less, the Reverend McMillan was himself too puzzled to answer
so quickly.

"Up to the time you went in that boat with her, Clyde, you had not
changed in your mood toward her--your intention to--to----"

The Reverend McMillan's face was gray and drawn. His eyes were sad. He
had been listening, as he now felt, to a sad and terrible story--an
evil and cruel self-torturing and destroying story. This young
boy--really----! His hot, restless heart which plainly for the lack of
so many things which he, the Reverend McMillan, had never wanted for,
had rebelled. And because of that rebellion had sinned mortally and was
condemned to die. Indeed his reason was as intensely troubled as his
heart was moved.

"No, I had not."

"You were, as you say, angry with yourself for being so weak as not to
be able to do what you had planned to do."

"In a way it was like that, yes. But then I was sorry, too, you see.
And maybe afraid. I'm not exactly sure now. Maybe not, either."

The Reverend McMillan shook his head. So strange! So evasive! So evil!
And yet----

"But at the same time, as you say, you were angry with her for having
driven you to that point."

"Yes."

"Where you were compelled to wrestle with so terrible a problem?"

"Yes."

"Tst! Tst! Tst! And so you thought of striking her."

"Yes, I did."

"But you could not."

"No."

"Praised be the mercy of God. Yet in the blow that you did
strike--unintentionally--as you say--there was still some anger against
her. That was why the blow was so--so severe. You did not want her to
come near you."

"No, I didn't. I think I didn't, anyhow. I'm not quite sure. It may be
that I wasn't quite right. Anyhow--all worked up, I guess--sick almost.
I--I----" In his uniform--his hair cropped so close, Clyde sat there,
trying honestly now to think how it really was (exactly) and greatly
troubled by his inability to demonstrate to himself even--either his
guilt or his lack of guilt. Was he--or was he not? And the Reverend
McMillan--himself intensely strained, muttering: "Wide is the gate and
broad the way that leadeth to destruction." And yet finally adding:
"But you did rise to save her."

"Yes, afterwards, I got up. I meant to catch her after she fell back.
That was what upset the boat."

"And you did really want to catch her?"

"I don't know. At the moment I guess I did. Anyhow I felt sorry, I
think."

"But can you say now truly and positively, as your Creator sees you,
that you were sorry--or that you wanted to save her then?"

"It all happened so quick, you see," began Clyde nervously--hopelessly,
almost, "that I'm not just sure. No, I don't know that I was so very
sorry. No. I really don't know, you see, now. Sometimes I think maybe I
was, a little, sometimes not, maybe. But after she was gone and I was
on shore, I felt sorry--a little. But I was sort of glad, too, you
know, to be free, and yet frightened, too----You see----"

"Yes, I know. You were going to that Miss X. But out there, when she
was in the water----?"

"No."

"You did not want to go to her rescue?"

"No."

"Tst! Tst! Tst! You felt no sorrow? No shame? Then?"

"Yes, shame, maybe. Maybe sorrow, too, a little. I knew it was
terrible. I felt that it was, of course. But still--you see----"

"Yes, I know. That Miss X. You wanted to get away."

"Yes--but mostly I was frightened, and I didn't want to help her."

"Yes! Yes! Tst! Tst! Tst! If she drowned you could go to that Miss X.
You thought of that?" The Reverend McMillan's lips were tightly and
sadly compressed.

"Yes."

"My son! My son! In your heart was murder then."

"Yes, yes," Clyde said reflectively. "I have thought since it must have
been that way."

The Reverend McMillan paused and to hearten himself for this task
began to pray--but silently--and to himself: "Our Father who art in
Heaven--hallowed be Thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done--on
earth as it is in Heaven." He stirred again after a time.

"Ah, Clyde. The mercy of God is equal to every sin. I know it. He sent
His own son to die for the evil of the world. It must be so--if you
will but repent. But that thought! That deed! You have much to
pray for, my son--much. Oh, yes. For in the sight of God, I
fear,--yes----And yet----I must pray for enlightenment. This is a
strange and terrible story. There are so many phases. It may be--but
pray. Pray with me now that you and I may have light." He bowed his
head. He sat for minutes in silence--while Clyde, also, in silence and
troubled doubt, sat before him. Then, after a time he began:

"Oh, Lord, rebuke me not in thine anger; neither chasten me in Thy
hot displeasure. Have mercy on me, O Lord, for I am weak. Heal me in
my shame and sorrow for my soul is wounded and dark in Thy sight.
Oh, let the wickedness of my heart pass. Lead me, O God, into Thy
righteousness. Let the wickedness of my heart pass and remember it
not."

Clyde--his head down--sat still--very still. He, himself, was at last
shaken and mournful. No doubt his sin was very great. Very, very
terrible! And yet----But then, the Reverend McMillan ceasing and
rising, he, too, rose, the while McMillan added: "But I must go now. I
must think--pray. This has troubled and touched me deeply. Oh, very,
Lord. And you--my son--you return and pray--alone. Repent. Ask of God
on your knees His forgiveness and He will hear you. Yes, He will. And
to-morrow--or as soon as I honestly can--I will come again. But do
not despair. Pray always--for in prayer alone, prayer and contrition,
is salvation. Rest in the strength of Him who holds the world in the
hollow of His hand. In His abounding strength and mercy, is peace and
forgiveness. Oh, yes."

He struck the iron door with a small key ring that he carried and at
once the guard, hearing it, returned.

Then having escorted Clyde to his cell and seen him once more shut
within that restraining cage, he took his own departure, heavily and
miserably burdened with all that he had heard. And Clyde was left to
brood on all he had said--and how it had affected McMillan, as well as
himself. His new friend's stricken mood. The obvious pain and horror
with which he viewed it all. Was he really and truly guilty? Did he
really and truly deserve to die for this? Was that what the Reverend
McMillan would decide? And in the face of all his tenderness and mercy?

After another week in which, moved by Clyde's seeming contrition, and
all the confusing and extenuating circumstances of his story, and
having wrestled most earnestly with every moral aspect of it, the
Reverend McMillan once more before his cell door--but only to say that
however liberal or charitable his interpretation of the facts, as at
last Clyde had truthfully pictured them, still he could not feel that
either primarily or secondarily could he be absolved from guilt for
her death. He had plotted--had he not? He had not gone to her rescue
when he might have. He had wished her dead and afterwards had not been
sorry. In the blow that had brought about the upsetting of the boat had
been some anger. Also in the mood that had not permitted him to strike.
The facts that he had been influenced by the beauty and position of
Miss X to the plotting of this deed, and, after his evil relations
with Roberta, that she had been determined he should marry her, far
from being points in extenuation of his actions, were really further
evidence of his general earthly sin and guilt. Before the Lord then he
had sinned in many ways. In those dark days, alas, as Mr. McMillan saw
it, he was little more than a compound of selfishness and unhallowed
desire and fornication against the evil of which Paul had thundered.
It had endured to the end and had not changed--until he had been taken
by the law. He had not repented--not even there at Bear Lake where he
had time for thought. And besides, had he not, from beginning to end,
bolstered it with false and evil pretenses? Verily.

On the other hand, no doubt if he were sent to the chair now in the
face of this first--and yet so clear manifestation of contrition--when
now, for the first time he was beginning to grasp the enormity of
his offense--it would be but to compound crime with crime--the state
in this instance being the aggressor. For, like the warden and many
others, McMillan was against capital punishment--preferring to compel
the wrong-doer to serve the state in some way. But, none-the-less, he
felt himself compelled to acknowledge, Clyde was far from innocent.
Think as he would--and however much spiritually he desired to absolve
him, was he not actually guilty?

In vain it was that McMillan now pointed out to Clyde that his awakened
moral and spiritual understanding more perfectly and beautifully fitted
him for life and action than ever before. He was alone. He had no
one who believed in him. _No one._ He had no one, who, in any of his
troubled and tortured actions before that crime saw anything but the
darkest guilt apparently. And yet--and yet--(and this despite Sondra
and the Reverend McMillan and all the world for that matter, Mason,
the jury at Bridgeburg, the Court of Appeals at Albany, if it should
decide to confirm the jury at Bridgeburg) he had a feeling in his heart
that he was not as guilty as they all seemed to think. After all they
had not been tortured as he had by Roberta with her determination that
he marry her and thus ruin his whole life. They had not burned with
that unquenchable passion for the Sondra of his beautiful dream as he
had. They had not been harassed, tortured, mocked by the ill-fate of
his early life and training, forced to sing and pray on the streets as
he had in such a degrading way, when his whole heart and soul cried
out for better things. How could they judge him, these people, all
or any one of them, even his own mother, when they did not know what
his own mental, physical and spiritual suffering had been? And as he
lived through it again in his thoughts at this moment the sting and
mental poison of it was as real to him as ever. Even in the face of all
the facts and as much as every one felt him to be guilty, there was
something so deep within him that seemed to cry out against it that,
even now, at times, it startled him. Still--there was the Reverend
McMillan--he was a very fair and just and merciful man. Surely he saw
all this from a higher light and better viewpoint than his own. While
at times he felt strongly that he was innocent, at others he felt that
he must be guilty.

Oh, these evasive and tangled and torturesome thoughts!! Would he never
be able--quite--to get the whole thing straightened out in his own mind?

So Clyde not being able to take advantage truly of either the
tenderness and faith and devotion of so good and pure a soul as the
Reverend McMillan or the all merciful and all powerful God of whom
here he stood as the ambassador. What was he to do, really? How
pray, resignedly, unreservedly, faithfully? And in that mood--and
because of the urge of the Reverend Duncan, who was convinced by
Clyde's confession that he must have been completely infused with the
spirit of God, once more thumbing through the various passages and
chapters pointed out to him--reading and re-reading the Psalms most
familiar to him, seeking from their inspiration to catch the necessary
contrition--which once caught would give him that peace and strength
which in these long and dreary hours he so much desired. Yet never
quite catching it.

Parallel with all this, four more months passed. And at the end of
that time--in January, 19--, the Court of Appeals finding (Fulham,
J., reviewing the evidence as offered by Belknap and Jephson)--with
Kincaid, Briggs, Truman and Dobshuter concurring, that Clyde was
guilty as decided by the Cataraqui County jury and sentencing him to
die at some time within the week beginning February 28th or six weeks
later--and saying in conclusion:

"We are mindful that this is a case of circumstantial evidence and
that the only eyewitness denies that death was the result of crime.
But in obedience to the most exacting requirements of that manner of
proof, the counsel for the people, with very unusual thoroughness and
ability has investigated and presented evidence of a great number of
circumstances for the purpose of truly solving the question of the
defendent's guilt or innocence.

"We might think that the proof of some of these facts standing by
themselves was subject to doubt by reason of unsatisfactory or
contradictory evidence, and that other occurrences might be so
explained or interpreted as to be reconcilable with innocence. The
defense--and very ably--sought to enforce this view.

"But taken all together and considered as a connected whole, they make
such convincing proof of guilt that we are not able to escape from its
force by any justifiable process of reasoning and we are compelled to
say that not only is the verdict not opposed to the weight of evidence,
and to the proper inference to be drawn from it, but that it is
abundantly justified thereby. Decision of the lower court unanimously
confirmed."

On hearing this, McMillan, who was in Syracuse at the time, hurrying
to Clyde in the hope that before the news was conveyed officially, he
should be there to encourage him spiritually, since, only with the
aid of the Lord, as he saw it--the eternal and ever present help in
trouble--would Clyde be able to endure so heavy a blow. And finding
him--for which he was most deeply grateful--wholly unaware as to what
had occurred, since no news of any kind was conveyed to any condemned
man until the warrant for his execution had arrived.

After a most tender and spiritual conversation--in which he quoted from
Matthew, Paul and John as to the unimportance of this world--the true
reality and joy of the next--Clyde was compelled to learn from McMillan
that the decision of the court had gone against him. And that--even
though McMillan talked of an appeal to the Governor which he--and some
others whom he was sure to be able to influence would make--unless the
Governor chose to act, within six weeks, as Clyde knew, he would be
compelled to die. And then, once the force of that fact had finally
burst on him--and while McMillan talked on about faith and the refuge
which the mercy and wisdom of God provided--Clyde, standing before him
with more courage and character showing in his face and eyes than at
any time previously in his brief and eager career.

"So they've decided against me. Now I will have to go through that door
after all,--like all those others. They'll draw the curtains for me,
too. Into that other room--then back across the passage--saying good-by
as I go, like those others. I will not be here any more." He seemed to
be going over each step in his mind--each step with which he was so
familiar, only now, for the first time, he was living it for himself.
Now, in the face of this dread news, which somehow was as fascinating
as it was terrible, feeling not as distrait or weak as at first he had
imagined he would be. Rather, to his astonishment, considering all his
previous terror in regard to this, thinking of what he would do, what
he would say, in an outwardly calm way.

Would he repeat prayers read to him by the Reverend McMillan here? No
doubt. And maybe gladly, too. And yet--

In his momentary trance he was unconscious of the fact that the
Reverend Duncan was whispering:

"But you see we haven't reached the end of this yet. There is a new
Governor coming into office in January. He is a very sensible and
kindly man, I hear. In fact I know several people who know him--and it
is my plan to see him personally--as well as to have some other people
whom I know write him on the strength of what I will tell them."

But from Clyde's look at the moment, as well as what he now said, he
could tell that he was not listening.

"My mother. I suppose some one ought to telegraph her. She is going to
feel very bad." And then: "I don't suppose they believed that those
letters shouldn't have been introduced just as they were, did they? I
thought maybe they would." He was thinking of Nicholson.

"Don't worry, Clyde," replied the tortured and saddened McMillan, at
this point more eager to take him in his arms and comfort him than to
say anything at all. "I have already telegraphed your mother. As for
that decision--I will see your lawyers right away. Besides--as I say--I
propose to see the Governor myself. He is a new man, you see."

Once more he was now repeating all that Clyde had not heard before.




                             CHAPTER XXXIV


The scene was the executive chamber of the newly elected Governor of
the State of New York some three weeks after the news conveyed to
Clyde by McMillan. After many preliminary and futile efforts on the
part of Belknap and Jephson to obtain a commutation of the sentence
of Clyde from death to life imprisonment (the customary filing of a
plea for clemency, together with such comments as they had to make
in regard to the way the evidence had been misinterpreted and the
illegality of introducing the letters of Roberta in their original
form, to all of which Governor Waltham, an ex-district attorney and
judge from the southern part of the state, had been conscientiously
compelled to reply that he could see no reason for interfering) there
was now before Governor Waltham Mrs. Griffiths together with the
Reverend McMillan. For, moved by the widespread interest in the final
disposition of Clyde's case, as well as the fact that his mother,
because of her unshaken devotion to him, and having learned of the
decision of the Court of Appeals, had once more returned to Auburn
and since then had been appealing to the newspapers, as well as to
himself through letters for a correct understanding of the extenuating
circumstances surrounding her son's downfall, and because she herself
had repeatedly appealed to him for a personal interview in which she
should be allowed to present her deepest convictions in regard to
all this, the Governor had at last consented to see her. It could do
no harm. Besides it would tend to soothe her. Also variable public
sentiment, whatever its convictions in any given case, was usually on
the side of the form or gesture of clemency--without, however, any
violence to its convictions. And, in this case, if one could judge by
the newspapers, the public was convinced that Clyde was guilty. On the
other hand, Mrs. Griffiths, owing to her own long meditations in regard
to Clyde, Roberta, his sufferings during and since the trial, the fact
that according to the Reverend McMillan he had at last been won to a
deep contrition and a spiritual union with his Creator whatever his
original sin, was now more than ever convinced that humanity and even
justice demanded that at least he be allowed to live. And so standing
before the Governor, a tall, sober and somewhat somber man who, never
in all his life had even so much as sensed the fevers or fires that
Clyde had known, yet who, being a decidedly affectionate father and
husband, could very well sense what Mrs. Griffiths' present emotions
must be. Yet greatly exercised by the compulsion which the facts, as he
understood them, as well as a deep-seated and unchangeable submission
to law and order, thrust upon him. Like the pardon clerk before him, he
had read all the evidence submitted to the Court of Appeals, as well
as the latest briefs submitted by Belknap and Jephson. But on what
grounds could he--David Waltham, and without any new or varying data of
any kind--just a re-interpretation of the evidence as already passed
upon--venture to change Clyde's death sentence to life imprisonment?
Had not a jury, as well as the Court of Appeals, already said he should
die?

In consequence, as Mrs. Griffiths began her plea, her voice
shaky--retracing as best she could the story of Clyde's life, his
virtues, the fact that at no time ever had he been a bad or cruel
boy--that Roberta, if not Miss X, was not entirely guiltless in the
matter--he merely gazed at her deeply moved. The love and devotion of
such a mother! Her agony in this hour; her faith that her son could not
be as evil as the proven facts seemed to indicate to him and every one
else. "Oh, my dear Governor, how can the sacrifice of my son's life
now, and when spiritually he has purged his soul of sin and is ready
to devote himself to the work of God, repay the state for the loss of
that poor, dear girl's life, whether it was accidentally or otherwise
taken--how can it? Can not the millions of people of the state of New
York be merciful? Cannot you as their representative exercise the mercy
that they may feel?"

Her voice broke--she could not go on. Instead she turned her back and
began to cry silently, while Waltham, shaken by an emotion he could
not master, merely stood there. This poor woman! So obviously honest
and sincere. Then the Reverend McMillan, seeing his opportunity, now
entering his plea. Clyde had changed. He could not speak as to his life
before--but since his incarceration--or for the last year, at least,
he had come into a new understanding of life, duty, his obligations
to man and God. If but the death sentence could be commuted to life
imprisonment----

And the Governor, who was a very earnest and conscientious man,
listened with all attention to McMillan, whom, as he saw and concluded
was decidedly an intense and vital and highly idealistic person. No
question in his own mind but what the words of this man--whatever they
were, would be true--in so far as his own understanding would permit
the conception of a truth.

"But you, personally, Mr. McMillan," the Governor at last found voice
to say, "because of your long contact with him in the prison there--do
you know of any material fact not introduced at the trial which would
in any way tend to invalidate or weaken any phase of the testimony
offered at the trial? As you must know this is a legal proceeding. I
cannot act upon sentiment alone--and especially in the face of the
unanimous decision of two separate courts."

He looked directly at McMillan, who, pale and dumb, now gazed at him
in return. For now upon his word--upon his shoulders apparently was
being placed the burden of deciding as to Clyde's guilt or innocence.
But could he do that? Had he not decided, after due meditation as
to Clyde's confessions, that he was guilty before God and the law?
And could he now--for mercy's sake--and in the face of his deepest
spiritual conviction, alter his report of his conviction? Would that
be true--white, valuable before the Lord? And as instantly deciding
that he, Clyde's spiritual adviser, must not in any way be invalidated
in his spiritual worth to Clyde. "Ye are the salt of the earth; but
if the salt have lost his savor, wherewith shall it be salted?" And
forthwith he declared: "As his spiritual advisor I have entered only
upon the spiritual, not the legal aspect of his life." And thereupon
Waltham at once deciding, from something in McMillan's manner that he,
like all others, apparently, was satisfied as to Clyde's guilt. And so,
finally finding courage to say to Mrs. Griffiths: "Unless some definite
evidence such as I have not yet seen and which will affect the legality
of these two findings can be brought me, I have no alternative,
Mrs. Griffiths, but to allow the verdict as written to stand. I am
very sorry--oh, more than I can tell you. But if the law is to be
respected its decisions can never be altered except for reasons that in
themselves are full of legal merit. I wish I could decide differently.
I do indeed. My heart and my prayers go with you."

He pressed a button. His secretary entered. It was plain that the
interview was ended. Mrs. Griffiths, violently shaken and deeply
depressed by the peculiar silence and evasion of McMillan at the
crucial moment of this interview when the Governor had asked such an
all important and direct question as to the guilt of her son, was still
unable to say a word more. But now what? Which way? To whom to turn?
God, and God only. She and Clyde must find in their Creator the solace
for his failure and death in this world. And as she was thinking and
still weeping, the Reverend McMillan approached and gently led her from
the room.

When she was gone the Governor finally turned to his secretary:

"Never in my life have I faced a sadder duty. It will always be with
me." He turned and gazed out upon a snowy February landscape.

And after this but two more weeks of life for Clyde, during which
time, and because of this ultimate decision conveyed to him first
by McMillan, but in company with his mother, from whose face Clyde
could read all, even before McMillan spoke, and from whom he heard
all once more as to his need of refuge and peace in God, his Savior,
he now walked up and down his cell, unable to rest for any length
of time anywhere. For, because of this final completely convincing
sensation, that very soon he was to die, he felt the need, even now of
retracing his unhappy life. His youth. Kansas City. Chicago. Lycurgus.
Roberta and Sondra. How swiftly they and all that was connected
with them passed in review. The few, brief, bright intense moments.
His desire for more--more--that intense desire he had felt there in
Lycurgus after Sondra came and now this, this! And now even this was
ending--this--this----Why, he had scarcely lived at all as yet--and
these last two years so miserably between these crushing walls. And of
this life but fourteen, thirteen, twelve, eleven, ten, nine, eight of
the filtering and now feverish days left. They were going--going. But
life--life--how was one to do without that--the beauty of the days--of
the sun and rain--of work, love, energy, desire. Oh, he really did not
want to die. He did not. Why say to him so constantly as his mother and
the Reverend McMillan now did to resolve all his care in divine mercy
and think only of God, when now, now, was all? And yet the Reverend
McMillan insisting that only in Christ and the hereafter was real
peace. Oh, yes--but just the same, before the Governor might he not
have said--might he not have said that he was not guilty--or at least
not entirely guilty--if only he had seen it that way--that time--and
then--then--why then the Governor might have commuted his sentence to
life imprisonment--might he not? For he had asked his mother what the
Reverend McMillan had said to the Governor--(yet without saying to her
that he had ever confessed all to him), and she had replied that he
had told him how sincerely he had humbled himself before the Lord--but
not that he was not guilty. And Clyde, feeling how strange it was
that the Reverend McMillan could not conscientiously bring himself
to do more than that for him. How sad. How hopeless. Would no one
ever understand--or give him credit for his human--if all too human
and perhaps wrong hungers--yet from which so many others--along with
himself suffered?

But worse yet, if anything, Mrs. Griffiths, because of what the
Reverend McMillan had said--or failed to say, in answer to the final
question asked him by Governor Waltham--and although subsequently in
answer to an inquiry of her own, he had repeated the statement, she was
staggered by the thought that perhaps, after all, Clyde was as guilty
as at first she had feared. And because of that asking at one point:

"Clyde, if there is anything you have not confessed, you must confess
it before you go."

"I have confessed everything to God and to Mr. McMillan, mother. Isn't
that enough?"

"No, Clyde. You have told the world that you are innocent. But if you
are not you must say so."

"But if my conscience tells me that I am right, is not that enough?"

"No, not if God's word says differently, Clyde," replied Mrs. Griffiths
nervously--and with great inward spiritual torture. But he chose to say
nothing further at that time. How could he discuss with his mother or
the world the strange shadings which in his confession and subsequent
talks with the Reverend McMillan he had not been able to solve. It was
not to be done.

And because of that refusal on her son's part to confide in her,
Mrs. Griffiths, tortured, not only spiritually but personally. Her
own son--and so near death and not willing to say what already
apparently he had said to Mr. McMillan. Would not God ever be done
with this testing her? And yet on account of what McMillan had already
said,--that he considered Clyde, whatever his past sins, contrite and
clean before the Lord--a youth truly ready to meet his Maker--she was
prone to rest. The Lord was great! He was merciful. In His bosom was
peace. What was death--what life--to one whose heart and mind were at
peace with Him? It was nothing. A few years (how very few) and she
and Asa and after them, his brothers and sisters, would come to join
him--and all his miseries here would be forgotten. But without peace
in the Lord--the full and beautiful realization of His presence, love,
care and mercy...! She was tremulous at moments now in her spiritual
exaltation--no longer quite normal--as Clyde could see and feel. But
also by her prayers and anxiety as to his spiritual welfare, he was
also able to see how little, really, she had ever understood of his
true moods and aspirations. He had longed for so much there in Kansas
City and he had had so little. Things--just things--had seemed so very
important to him--and he had so resented being taken out on the street
as he had been, before all the other boys and girls, many of whom had
all the things that he so craved, and when he would have been glad to
have been anywhere else in the world than out there--on the street!
That mission life that to his mother was so wonderful, yet, to him,
so dreary! But was it wrong for him to feel so? Had it been? Would
the Lord resent it now? And, maybe, she was right as to her thoughts
about him. Unquestionably he would have been better off if he had
followed her advice. But how strange it was, that to his own mother,
and even now in these closing hours, when above all things he craved
sympathy--but more than sympathy, true and deep understanding--even
now--and as much as she loved and sympathized with, and was seeking
to aid him with all her strength in her stern and self-sacrificing
way,--still he could not turn to her now and tell her--his own mother,
just how it all happened. It was as though there was an unsurmountable
wall or impenetrable barrier between them, built by the lack of
understanding--for it was just that. She would never understand his
craving for ease and luxury, for beauty, for love--his particular kind
of love that went with show, pleasure, wealth, position, his eager
and immutable aspirations and desires. She could not understand these
things. She would look on all of it as sin--evil, selfishness. And in
connection with all the fatal steps involving Roberta and Sondra, as
adultery--unchastity--murder, even. And she would and did expect him to
be terribly sorry and wholly repentant, when, even now, and for all he
had said to the Reverend McMillan and to her, he could not feel so--not
wholly so--although great was his desire now to take refuge in God,
but better yet, if it were only possible, in her own understanding and
sympathetic heart. If it were only possible.

Lord, it was all so terrible! He was so alone, even in these last few
and elusive hours (the swift passing of the days), with his mother and
also the Reverend McMillan here with him, but neither understanding.

But, apart from all this and much worse, he was locked up here and they
would not let him go. There was a system--a horrible routine system--as
long since he had come to feel it to be so. It was iron. It moved
automatically like a machine without the aid or the hearts of men.
These guards! They with their letters, their inquiries, their pleasant
and yet really hollow words, their trips to do little favors, or to
take the men in and out of the yard or to their baths--they were iron,
too--mere machines, automatons, pushing and pushing and yet restraining
and restraining one--within these walls, as ready to kill as to favor
in case of opposition--but pushing, pushing, pushing--always toward
that little door over there, from which there was no escape--no
escape--just on and on--until at last they would push him through
it--never to return! _Never to return!_

Each time he thought of this he arose and walked the floor. Afterwards,
usually, he resumed the puzzle of his own guilt. He tried to think of
Roberta and the evil he had done her, to read the Bible--even--lying
on his face on the iron cot--repeating over and over: "Lord, give me
peace. Lord, give me light. Lord, give me strength to resist any evil
thoughts that I should not have. I know I am not wholly white. Oh,
no. I know I plotted evil. Yes, yes, I know that. I confess. But must
I really die now? Is there no help? Will you not help me, Lord? Will
you not manifest yourself, as my mother says you will--for me? Will
you get the Governor to change my sentence before the final moment to
life imprisonment? Will you get the Reverend McMillan to change his
views and go to him, and my mother, too? I will drive out all sinful
thoughts. I will be different. Oh, yes, I will, if you will only spare
me. Do not let me die now--so soon. Do not. I will pray. Yes, I will.
Give me the strength to understand and believe--and pray. Oh, do!"

It was like this in those short, horrible days between the return
of his mother and the Reverend McMillan from their final visit to
the Governor and in his last hour that Clyde thought and prayed--yet
finally in a kind of psychic terror, evoked by his uncertainty as to
the meaning of the hereafter, his certainty of death, and the faith
and emotions of his mother, as well as those of the Reverend McMillan,
who was about every day with his interpretations of divine mercy and
his exhortations as to the necessity of complete faith and reliance
upon it, he, himself coming at last to believe, not only must he have
faith but that he had it--and peace--complete and secure. In that
state, and at the request of the Reverend McMillan, and his mother,
finally composing, with the personal aid and supervision of McMillan,
who changed some of the sentences in his presence and with his consent,
an address to the world, and more particularly to young men of his own
years, which read:

    In the shadow of the Valley of Death it is my desire to do
    everything that would remove any doubt as to my having found Jesus
    Christ, the personal Savior and unfailing friend. My one regret at
    this time is that I have not given Him the preëminence in my life
    while I had the opportunity to work for Him.

    If I could only say some one thing that would draw young men to Him
    I would deem it the greatest privilege ever granted me. But all I
    can now say is, "I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded
    that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him
    against that day" [a quotation that McMillan had familiarized him
    with].

    If the young men of this country could only know the joy and
    pleasure of a Christian life, I know they would do all in their
    power to become earnest, active Christians, and would strive to
    live as Christ would have them live.

    There is not one thing I have left undone which will bar me from
    facing my God, knowing that my sins are forgiven, for I have been
    free and frank in my talks with my spiritual adviser, and God knows
    where I stand.

    My task is done, the victory won.

                                                       CLYDE GRIFFITHS.

Having written this--a statement so unlike all the previous rebellious
moods that had characterized him that even now he was not a little
impressed by the difference, handing it to McMillan, who, heartened by
this triumph, exclaimed: "And the victory _is_ won, Clyde. 'This day
shalt thou be with me in Paradise.' You have His word. Your soul and
your body belong to Him. Praised, everlastingly, be His name."

And then so wrought up was he by this triumph, taking both Clyde's
hands in his and kissing them and then folding him in his arms: "My
son, my son, in whom I am well pleased. In you God has truly manifested
His truth. His power to save. I see it. I feel it. Your address to the
world is really His own voice to the world." And then pocketing the
note with the understanding that it was to be issued after Clyde's
death--not before. And yet Clyde having written this, still dubious
at moments. Was he truly saved? The time was so short? Could he
rely on God with that absolute security which he had just announced
now characterized him? Could he? Life was so strange. The future so
obscure. Was there really a life after death--a God by whom he would
be welcomed as the Reverend McMillan and his own mother insisted? Was
there?

In the midst of this, two days before his death and in a final burst
of panic, Mrs. Griffiths wiring the Hon. David Waltham: "Can you say
before your God that you have no doubt of Clyde's guilt? Please wire.
If you cannot, then his blood will be upon your head. His mother."
And Robert Fessler, the secretary to the Governor replying by wire:
"Governor Waltham does not think himself justified in interfering with
the decision of the Court of Appeals."

At last the final day--the final hour--Clyde's transfer to a cell in
the old death house, where, after a shave and a bath, he was furnished
with black trousers, a white shirt without a collar, to be opened at
the neck afterwards, new felt slippers and gray socks. So accoutered,
he was allowed once more to meet his mother and McMillan, who, from
six o'clock in the evening preceding the morning of his death until
four of the final morning, were permitted to remain near him to counsel
with him as to the love and mercy of God. And then at four the warden
appearing to say that it was time, he feared, that Mrs. Griffiths
depart leaving Clyde in the care of Mr. McMillan. (The sad compulsion
of the law, as he explained.) And then Clyde's final farewell to his
mother, before which, and in between the silences and painful twistings
of heart strings, he had managed to say:

"Mama, you must believe that I die resigned and content. It won't be
hard. God has heard my prayers. He has given me strength and peace."
But to himself adding: "Had he?"

And Mrs. Griffiths exclaiming: "My son! My son, I know, I know. I have
faith too. I know that my Redeemer liveth and that He is yours. Though
we die--yet shall we live!" She was looking heavenward, and seemed
transfixed. Yet as suddenly turning to Clyde and gathering him in her
arms and holding him long and firmly to her, whispering: "My son--my
baby----" and her voice broke and trailed off into breathlessness--and
her strength seemed to be going all to him, until she felt she must
leave or fall----And so she turned quickly and unsteadily to the
warden, who was waiting for her to lead her to Auburn friends of
McMillan's.

And then in the dark of this midwinter morning--the final moment--with
the guards coming, first to slit his right trouser leg for the metal
plate and then going to draw the curtains before the cells: "It is
time, I fear. Courage, my son." It was the Reverend McMillan--now
accompanied by the Reverend Gibson, who, seeing the prison guards
approaching, was then addressing Clyde.

And Clyde now getting up from his cot, on which, beside the Reverend
McMillan, he had been listening to the reading of John, 14, 15, 16:
"Let not your heart be troubled. Ye believe in God--believe also in
me." And then the final walk with the Reverend McMillan on his right
hand and the Reverend Gibson on his left--the guards front and rear.
But with, instead of the customary prayers, the Reverend McMillan
announcing: "Humble yourselves under the mighty hand of God that He may
exalt you in due time. Cast all your care upon Him for He careth for
you. Be at peace. Wise and righteous are His ways, who hath called us
into His eternal glory by Christ Jesus, after that we have suffered a
little. I am the way, the truth and the life--no man cometh unto the
Father but by me."

But various voices--as Clyde entered the first door to cross to the
chair room, calling: "Good-by, Clyde." And Clyde, with enough earthly
thought and strength to reply: "Good-by, all." But his voice sounding
so strange and weak, even to himself, so far distant as though it
emanated from another being walking alongside of him, and not from
himself. And his feet were walking, but automatically, it seemed. And
he was conscious of that familiar shuffle--shuffle--as they pushed
him on and on toward that door. Now it was here; now it was being
opened. There it was--at last--the chair he had so often seen in his
dreams--that he so dreaded--to which he was now compelled to go. He was
being pushed toward that--into that--on--on--through the door which was
now open--to receive him--but which was as quickly closed again on all
the earthly life he had ever known.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was the Reverend McMillan who, gray and weary--a quarter of an hour
later, walked desolately--and even a little uncertainly--as one who
is physically very weak--through the cold doors of the prison. It was
so faint--so weak--so gray as yet--this late winter day--and so like
himself now. Dead! He, Clyde, had walked so nervously and yet somehow
trustingly beside him but a few minutes before--and now he was dead.
The law! Prisons such as this. Strong, evil men who scoffed betimes
where Clyde had prayed. That confession! Had he decided truly--with the
wisdom of God, as God gave him to see wisdom? Had he? Clyde's eyes! He,
himself--the Reverend McMillan had all but fainted beside him as that
cap was adjusted to his head--that current turned on--and he had had to
be assisted, sick and trembling, from the room--he upon whom Clyde had
relied. And he had asked God for strength,--was asking it.

He walked along the silent street--only to be compelled to pause and
lean against a tree--leafless in the winter--so bare and bleak. Clyde's
eyes! That look as he sank limply into that terrible chair, his eyes
fixed nervously and, as he thought, appealingly and dazedly upon him
and the group surrounding him.

Had he done right? Had his decision before Governor Waltham been
truly sound, fair or merciful? Should he have said to him--that
perhaps--perhaps--there had been those other influences playing upon
him? ... Was he never to have mental peace again, perhaps?

"I know my Redeemer liveth and that He will keep him against that day."

And then he walked and walked hours before he could present himself
to Clyde's mother, who, on her knees in the home of the Rev. and Mrs.
Francis Gault, Salvationists of Auburn, had been, since four-thirty,
praying for the soul of her son whom she still tried to visualize as in
the arms of his Maker.

"I know in whom I have believed," was a part of her prayer.




                               SOUVENIR

Dusk of a summer night.

And the tall walls of the commercial heart of the city of San
Francisco--tall and gray in the evening shade.

And up a broad street from the south of Market--now comparatively
hushed after the din of the day, a little band of five--a man of about
sixty, short, stout, yet cadaverous as to the flesh of his face--and
more especially about the pale, dim eyes--and with bushy white hair
protruding from under a worn, round felt hat--a most unimportant
and exhausted looking person, who carried a small, portable organ
such as is customarily used by street preachers and singers. And by
his side, a woman not more than five years his junior--taller, not
so broad, but solid of frame and vigorous--with snow white hair and
wearing an unrelieved costume of black--dress, bonnet, shoes. And
her face broader and more characterful than her husband's, but more
definitely seamed with lines of misery and suffering. At her side,
again, carrying a Bible and several hymn books--a boy of not more
than seven or eight--very round-eyed and alert, who, because of some
sympathetic understanding between him and his elderly companion, seemed
to desire to walk close to her--a brisk and smart stepping--although
none-too-well dressed boy. With these three, again, but walking
independently behind, a faded and unattractive woman of twenty-seven or
eight and another woman of about fifty--apparently, because of their
close resemblance--mother and daughter.

It was hot, with the sweet languor of a Pacific summer about it all. At
Market, the great thoroughfare which they had reached--and because of
threading throngs of automobiles and various lines of cars passing in
opposite directions, they awaited the signal of the traffic officer.

"Russell, stay close now." It was the wife speaking. "Better take hold
of my hand."

"It seems to me," commented the husband, very feeble and yet serene,
"that the traffic here grows worse all the time."

The cars clanged their bells. The automobiles barked and snorted. But
the little group seemed entirely unconscious of anything save a set
purpose to make its way across the street.

"Street preachers," observed a passing bank clerk to his cashier girl
friend.

"Sure--I see them up here nearly every Wednesday."

"Gee, it's pretty tough on the little kid, I should think. He's pretty
small to be dragged around on the streets, don't you think, Ella?"

"Well, I'll say so. I'd hate to see a brother of mine in on any such
game. What kind of a life is that for a kid anyhow?" commented Ella as
they passed on.

Having crossed the street and reached the first intersection beyond,
they paused and looked around as though they had reached their
destination--the man putting down his organ which he proceeded to
open--setting up, as he did so, a small but adequate music rack. At
the same time his wife, taking from her grandson the several hymnals
and the Bible he carried, gave the Bible as well as a hymnal to her
husband, put one on the organ and gave one to each of the remaining
group including one for herself. The husband looked somewhat vacantly
about him--yet, none-the-less with a seeming wide-eyed assurance, and
began with:

"We will begin with 276 to-night. 'How firm a foundation.' All right,
Miss Schoof."

At this the younger of the two women--very parched and spare--angular
and homely--to whom life had denied quite all--seated herself upon the
yellow camp chair and after arranging the stops and turning the leaves
of the book, began playing the chosen hymn, to the tune of which they
all joined in.

By this time various homeward bound individuals of diverse occupations
and interests noticing this small group so advantageously disposed near
the principal thoroughfare of the city, hesitated a moment,--either to
eye them askance or to ascertain the character of their work. And as
they sang, the nondescript and indifferent street audience gazed, held
by the peculiarity of such an unimportant group publicly raising its
voice against the vast skepticism and apathy of life. That gray and
flabby and ineffectual old man, in his worn and baggy blue suit. This
robust and yet uncouth and weary and white-haired woman; this fresh and
unsoiled and unspoiled and uncomprehending boy. What was he doing here?
And again that neglected and thin spinster and her equally thin and
distrait looking mother. Of the group, the wife stood out in the eyes
of the passers-by as having the force and determination which, however
blind or erroneous, makes for self-preservation, if not real success in
life. She, more than any of the others, stood up with an ignorant, yet
somehow respectable air of conviction. And as several of the many who
chanced to pause, watched her, her hymn-book dropped to her side, her
glance directed straight before her into space, each said on his way:
"Well, here is one, who, whatever her defects, probably does what she
believes as nearly as possible." A kind of hard, fighting faith in the
wisdom and mercy of the definite overruling and watchful and merciful
power which she proclaimed was written in her every feature and gesture.

The song was followed with a long prayer by the wife; then a sermon by
the husband, testimonies by the others--all that God had done for them.
Then the return march to the hall, the hymnals having been gathered,
the organ folded and lifted by a strap over the husband's shoulder. And
as they walked--it was the husband that commented: "A fine night. It
seemed to me they were a little more attentive than usual."

"Oh, yes," returned the younger woman that had played the organ. "At
least eleven took tracts. And one old gentleman asked me where the
mission was and when we held services."

"Praise the Lord," commented the man.

And then at last the mission itself--"The Star of Hope. Bethel
Independent Mission, Meetings every Wednesday and Saturday night, 8 to
10. Sundays at 11, 3, 8. Everybody welcome." And under this legend in
each window--"God is Love." And below that again in smaller type: "How
long since you wrote to Mother."

"Kin' I have a dime, grandma. I wana' go up to the corner and git some
hot chestnuts." It was the boy asking.

"Yes, I guess so, Russell. But listen to me. You are to come right
back."

"Yes, I will, grandma, sure. You know me."

He took the dime that his Grandmother had extracted from a deep pocket
in her dress and ran with it to the chestnut vendor.

Her darling boy. The light and color of her declining years. She must
be kind to him, more liberal with him, not restrain him too much, as
maybe, maybe, she had----She looked affectionately and yet a little
vacantly after him as he ran. "For _his_ sake."

The small company, minus Russell, entered the yellow, unprepossessing
door and disappeared.


                                THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]






*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN AMERICAN TRAGEDY, V. 2 ***


    

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for
copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very
easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation
of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project
Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may
do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected
by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark
license, especially commercial redistribution.


START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free
distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work
(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full
Project Gutenberg™ License available with this file or online at
www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg™
electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg™
electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to
and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property
(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all
the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or
destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in your
possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a
Project Gutenberg™ electronic work and you do not agree to be bound
by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person
or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be
used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who
agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few
things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See
paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works if you follow the terms of this
agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg™
electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the
Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection
of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works. Nearly all the individual
works in the collection are in the public domain in the United
States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the
United States and you are located in the United States, we do not
claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing,
displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as
all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope
that you will support the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting
free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg™
works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the
Project Gutenberg™ name associated with the work. You can easily
comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the
same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg™ License when
you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern
what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are
in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States,
check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this
agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing,
distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any
other Project Gutenberg™ work. The Foundation makes no
representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any
country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other
immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg™ License must appear
prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg™ work (any work
on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the
phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed,
performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

    This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
    other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
    whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
    of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
    at www.gutenberg.org. If you
    are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws
    of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
  
1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is
derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not
contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the
copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in
the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are
redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project
Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply
either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or
obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg™
trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg™ electronic work is posted
with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution
must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any
additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms
will be linked to the Project Gutenberg™ License for all works
posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the
beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg™
License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this
work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg™.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this
electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without
prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with
active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project
Gutenberg™ License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary,
compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including
any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access
to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg™ work in a format
other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official
version posted on the official Project Gutenberg™ website
(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense
to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means
of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain
Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the
full Project Gutenberg™ License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying,
performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg™ works
unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing
access to or distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works
provided that:

    • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from
        the use of Project Gutenberg™ works calculated using the method
        you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed
        to the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, but he has
        agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid
        within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are
        legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty
        payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project
        Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in
        Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg
        Literary Archive Foundation.”
    
    • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies
        you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he
        does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™
        License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all
        copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue
        all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™
        works.
    
    • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of
        any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the
        electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of
        receipt of the work.
    
    • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free
        distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.
    

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than
are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing
from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of
the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set
forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable
effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread
works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project
Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may
contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate
or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other
intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or
other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or
cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right
of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project
Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project
Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all
liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal
fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT
LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE
PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE
TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE
LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR
INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH
DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a
defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can
receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a
written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you
received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium
with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you
with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in
lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person
or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second
opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If
the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing
without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth
in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO
OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT
LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied
warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of
damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement
violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the
agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or
limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or
unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the
remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the
trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone
providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in
accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the
production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™
electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses,
including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of
the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this
or any Project Gutenberg™ work, (b) alteration, modification, or
additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg™ work, and (c) any
Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg™

Project Gutenberg™ is synonymous with the free distribution of
electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of
computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It
exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations
from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the
assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg™’s
goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg™ collection will
remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project
Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure
and permanent future for Project Gutenberg™ and future
generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see
Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit
501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the
state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal
Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification
number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by
U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 809 North 1500 West,
Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up
to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website
and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg
Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread
public support and donations to carry out its mission of
increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be
freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest
array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations
($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt
status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating
charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United
States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a
considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up
with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations
where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND
DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state
visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we
have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition
against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who
approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make
any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from
outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation
methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other
ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To
donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg™ electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project
Gutenberg™ concept of a library of electronic works that could be
freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and
distributed Project Gutenberg™ eBooks with only a loose network of
volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg™ eBooks are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in
the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not
necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper
edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search
facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg™,
including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary
Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to
subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.