CHAPTER I

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.