The morrow dawned after an all but sleepless night, harrowed by the
most torturesome dreams in regard to Roberta, men who arrived to
arrest him, and the like, until at last he arose, his nerves and eyes
aching. Then, venturing to come downstairs about an hour later, he
saw Frederick, the chauffeur who had driven him out the day before,
getting one of the cars out. And thereupon instructing him to bring all
the morning Albany and Utica papers. And about nine thirty, when he
returned, proceeding to his room with them, where, locking the door and
spreading one of the papers before him, he was immediately confronted
by the startling headlines:
"MYSTERY IN GIRL'S DEATH
BODY FOUND YESTERDAY IN ADIRONDACK LAKE
MAN COMPANION MISSING"
And at once strained and white he sat down in one of the chairs near
the window and began to read:
"Bridgeburg, N. Y., July 9.--The body of an unknown girl,
presumably the wife of a young man who registered first on
Wednesday morning at Grass Lake Inn, Grass Lake, N. Y., as Carl
Graham and wife, and later, Thursday noon, at Big Bittern Lodge,
Big Bittern, as Clifford Golden and wife was taken from the waters
of the south end of Big Bittern just before noon yesterday. Because
of an upturned boat, as well as a man's straw hat found floating
on the water in Moon Cove, dredging with hooks and lines had been
going on all morning.... Up to seven o'clock last evening, however,
the body of the man had not as yet been recovered, and according to
Coroner Heit of Bridgeburg, who by two o'clock had been summoned to
the scene of the tragedy, it was not considered at all likely that
it would be. Several marks and abrasions found upon the dead girl's
head and face, as well as the testimony of three men who arrived on
the scene while the search was still on and testified to having met
a young man who answered to the description of Golden or Graham in
the woods to the south of the lake the night before, caused many to
conclude that a murder had been committed and that the murderer was
seeking to make his escape.
"The girl's brown leather traveling bag, as well as a hat and coat
belonging to her, were left, the bag in the ticket agent's room
at Gun Lodge, which is the railway station five miles east of Big
Bittern, and the hat and coat in the coatroom of the inn at the
Lake, whereas Graham or Golden is said to have taken his suitcase
with him into the boat.
"According to the innkeeper at Big Bittern, the couple on their
arrival registered as Clifford Golden and wife of Albany. They
remained in the inn but a few minutes before Golden walked to the
boat-landing just outside and procured a light boat, in which,
accompanied by the girl and his suitcase, he went out on the
lake. They did not return, and yesterday morning the boat was
found bottomside up in what is known as Moon Cove, a small bay or
extension at the extreme south end of the lake, from the waters of
which soon afterwards the body of the young woman was recovered. As
there are no known rocks in the lake at that point, and the wounds
upon the face are quite marked, suspicion was at once aroused
that the girl might have been unfairly dealt with. This, together
with the testimony of the three men, as well as the fact that a
man's straw hat found nearby contained no lining or other method
of identification, has caused Coroner Heit to assert that unless
the body of the man is found he will assume that murder has been
committed.
"Golden or Graham, as described by innkeepers and guests and
guides at Grass Lake and Big Bittern, is not more than twenty-four
or twenty-five years of age, slender, dark, and not more than
five feet eight or nine inches tall. At the time he arrived he
was dressed in a light gray suit, tan shoes, and a straw hat and
carried a brown suitcase to which was attached an umbrella and some
other object, presumably a cane.
"The hat and coat left by the girl at the inn were of dark and
light tan respectively, her dress a dark blue.
"Notice has been sent to all railroad stations in this vicinity to
be on the lookout for Golden, or Graham, in order that he may be
arrested if he is alive and attempts to make his escape. The body
of the drowned girl is to be removed to Bridgeburg, the county seat
of this county, where an inquest is later to be held."
In frozen silence he sat and pondered. For would not the news of such
a dastardly murder as this now appeared to be, together with the fact
that it had been committed in this immediate vicinity, stir up such
marked excitement as to cause many--perhaps all--to scan all goers
and comers everywhere in the hope of detecting the one who had thus
been described? Might it not be better, therefore, since they were so
close on his trail already, if he were to go to the authorities at
Big Bittern or here and make a clean breast of all that had thus far
occurred, the original plot and the reasons therefor, only explaining
how at the very last he had not really killed her--had experienced a
change of heart and had not been able to do as he had planned? But, no.
That would be to give away to Sondra and the Griffiths all that had
been going on between him and Roberta--and before it was absolutely
certain that all was ended for him here. And besides, would they
believe him now, after that flight--those reported wounds? Did it not
really look as though he had killed her, regardless of how he might try
to explain that he had not?
It was not unlikely also that at least some among all those who had
seen him would be able to detect him from this printed description,
even though he no longer wore the gray suit or the straw hat. God!
They were looking for him, or rather for that Clifford Golden or Carl
Graham who looked like him, in order to charge him with murder! But if
he looked exactly like Clifford Golden and those three men came! He
began to shiver. And worst yet. A new and horrible thought, this--and
at this instant, and for the first time flashing upon his mind--the
similarity of those initials to his own! He had never thought of them
in an unfavorable light before, but now he could see that they were
detrimental. Why was it that he had never thought of that before? Why
was it? Why was it? Oh, God!
Just then a telephone call for him came from Sondra. It was announced
as from her. Yet even so he was compelled to brace himself in order to
make even an acceptable showing, vocally. How was her sick boy this
morning? Any better? How dreadful that illness last night to come on
him so suddenly. Was he really all right now? And was he going to
be able to go on the trip all right? That was fine. She had been so
frightened and so worried all night for fear he might be too sick to
want to go. But he was going, so everything was all right again now.
Darling! Precious baby! Did her baby boy love her so? She was just sure
that the trip would do him a lot of good. But until noon, now, dear,
she would be using all her spare time getting ready, but at one, or
one-thirty, everybody would be at the Casino pier. And then--oh, my!
Ho! for a great old time up there! He was to come with Bertine and
Grant and whoever else was coming from there, and then at the pier he
could change to Stuart's launch. They were certain to have so much
fun--just loads of it--but just now she would have to go. Bye-bye!
And once more like a bright-colored bird she was gone.
But three hours to wait before he could leave here and so avoid the
danger of encountering any one who might be looking for Clifford Golden
or Carl Graham! Still until then he could walk up the lake shore into
the woods, couldn't he?--or sit below, his bag all packed, and watch
who, if anybody, might approach along the long-winding path from the
road or by launch across the lake. And if he saw any one who looked
at all suspicious, he could take flight, could he not? And afterwards
doing just that--first walking away into the woods and looking back,
as might a hunted animal. Then later returning and sitting or walking,
but always watching, watching. (What man was that? What boat was that?
Where was it going? Was it coming here, by any chance? Who was in it?
Supposing an officer--a detective? Then flight, of course--if there was
still time.)
But, at last one o'clock, and the Cranston launch, with Bertine and
Harley and Wynette, as well as Grant and himself, setting out for the
pier. And once there, joined by all who were going, together with the
servants. And at Little Fish Inlet, thirty miles north, on the eastern
shore, they were met by the cars of the Baggotts', Harriets' and
others, from where, with their goods and canoes, they were portaged
forty miles east to Bear Lake, as lonely and as arresting almost as Big
Bittern itself.
The joy of this trip if only that other thing were not hanging over him
now. This exquisite pleasure of being near Sondra, her eyes constantly
telling him how much she cared. And her spirit's flame so high because
of his presence here with her now. And yet Roberta's body up! That
search for Clifford Golden--Carl Graham. His identical description
wired as well as published everywhere. These others--all of them in
their boats and cars had probably read it. And yet, because of their
familiarity with him and his connections--Sondra, the Griffiths--not
suspecting him--not thinking of the description even. But if they
should! If they should guess! The horror! The flight! The exposure! The
police! The first to desert him--these--all save Sondra perhaps. And
even she, too. Yes, she, of course. The horror in her eyes.
And then that evening at sundown, on the west shore of this same
lake, on an open sward that was as smooth as any well-kept lawn, the
entire company settled, in five different colored tents ranged about
a fire like an Indian village, with cooks' and servants' tents in the
distance. And the half dozen canoes beached like bright fish along the
grassy shore of the lake. And then supper around an open fire. And
Baggott and Harriet and Stuart and Grant, after furnishing music for
the others to dance by, organizing, by the flare of a large gasoline
lamp, a poker game. And the others joining in singing ribald camping
and college songs, no one of which Clyde knew, yet in which he tried to
join. And shouts of laughter. And bets as to who would be the first to
catch the first fish, to shoot the first squirrel or partridge, to win
the first race. And lastly, solemn plans for moving the camp at least
ten miles farther east, after breakfast, on the morrow where was an
ideal beach, and where they would be within five miles of the Wetissic
Inn, and where they could dine and dance to their heart's content.
And then the silence and the beauty of this camp at night, after all
had presumably gone to bed. The stars! The mystic, shadowy water,
faintly rippling in a light wind, the mystic, shadowy pines conferring
in the light breezes, the cries of night birds and owls--too disturbing
to Clyde to be listened to with anything but inward distress. The
wonder and glory of all this--if only--if only he were not stalked
after, as by a skeleton, by the horror not only of what he had done
in connection with Roberta but the danger and the power of the law
that deemed him a murderer! And then Sondra, the others having gone to
bed--or off into the shadow,--stealing out for a few last words and
kisses under the stars. And he whispering to her how happy he was, how
grateful for all her love and faith, and at one point almost tempted to
ask whether in case it should ever appear that he was not as good as
she now seemed to imagine him, she would still love him a little--not
hate him entirely--yet refraining for fear that after that exhibition
of terror the preceding night she might connect his present mood with
that, or somehow with the horrible, destructive secret that was gnawing
at his vitals.
And then afterwards, lying in the four-cot tent with Baggott, Harriet
and Grant, listening nervously for hours for any prowling steps that
might mean--that might mean--God--what might they not mean even up
here?--the law! arrest! exposure! Death. And waking twice in the
night out of dread, destructive dreams,--and feeling as though--and
fearing--that he had cried out in his sleep.
But then the glory of the morning once more--with its rotund and
yellow sun rising over the waters of the lake--and in a cove across
the lake wild ducks paddling about. And after a time Grant and Stuart
and Harley, half-clad and with guns and a great show of fowling skill,
foolishly setting forth in canoes in the hope of bagging some of the
game with long distance shots, yet getting nothing, to the merriment of
all the others. And the boys and girls, stealing out in bright-colored
bathing suits and silken beach robes to the water, there to plunge
gayly in and shout and clatter concerning the joy of it all. And
breakfast at nine, with afterwards the gayety and beauty of the bright
flotilla of canoes making eastward along the southern lake shore,
banjos, guitars and mandolins strumming and voices raised in song,
jest, laughter.
"Whatever matter wissum sweet to-day? Face all dark. Cantum be happy
out here wis Sonda and all these nicey good-baddies?"
And Clyde as instantly realizing that he must pretend to be gay and
care-free.
And then Harley Baggott and Grant and Harriet at about noon announcing
that there--just ahead--was the fine beach they had in mind--the
Ramshorn, a spit of land commanding from its highest point all the
length and breadth of the lake. And with room on the shore below
for all the tents and paraphernalia of the company. And then,
throughout this warm, pleasant Sunday afternoon, the usual program of
activities--lunching, swimming, dancing, walking, card-playing, music.
And Clyde and Sondra, like other couples, stealing off--Sondra with a
mandolin--to a concealed rock far to the east of the camp, where in the
shade of the pines they could lie--Sondra in Clyde's arms--and talk
of the things they were certain to do later, even though, as she now
announced, Mrs. Finchley was declaring that after this particular visit
of Clyde's her daughter was to have nothing more to do with him in
any such intimate social way as this particular trip gave opportunity
for. He was too poor--too nondescript a relative of the Griffiths. (It
was so that Sondra, yet in a more veiled way, described her mother as
talking.) Yet adding: "How ridiculous, sweetum! But don't you mind. I
just laughed and agreed because I don't want to aggravate her just now.
But I did ask her how I was to avoid meeting you here or anywhere now
since you are as popular as you are. My sweetum is so good-looking.
Everybody thinks so--even the boys."
* * * * *
At this very hour, on the veranda of the Silver Inn at Sharon, District
Attorney Mason, with his assistant Burton Burleigh, Coroner Heit and
Earl Newcomb, and the redoubtable Sheriff Slack, paunched and scowling,
yet genial enough in ordinary social intercourse, together with three
assistants--first, second and third deputies Kraut, Sissell and
Swenk--conferring as to the best and most certain methods of immediate
capture.
"He has gone to Bear Lake. We must follow and trap him before news
reaches him in any way that he is wanted."
And so they set forth--this group---Burleigh and Earl Newcomb about
Sharon itself in order to gather such additional data as they might
in connection with Clyde's arrival and departure from here for the
Cranstons' on Friday, talking with and subpœnaing any such individuals
as might throw any light on his movements; Heit to Three Mile Bay on
much the same errand, to see Captain Mooney of the "Cygnus" and the
three men and Mason, together with the sheriff and his deputies, in a
high-powered launch chartered for the occasion, to follow the now known
course of the only recently-departed camping party, first to Little
Fish Inlet and from there, in case the trail proved sound, to Bear Lake.
And on Monday morning, while those at Ramshorn Point after breaking
camp were already moving on toward Shelter Beach fourteen miles east,
Mason, together with Slack and his three deputies, arriving at the
camp deserted the morning before. And there, the Sheriff and Mason
taking counsel with each other and then dividing their forces so that
in canoes commandeered from lone residents of the region they now
proceeded, Mason and First Deputy Kraut along the south shore, Slack
and Second Deputy Sissell along the north shore, while young Swenk,
blazing with a desire to arrest and handcuff some one, yet posing for
the occasion as a lone young hunter or woodsman, paddled directly
east along the center of the lake in search of any informing smoke
or fires or tents or individuals idling along the shores. And with
great dreams of being the one to capture the murderer--I arrest you,
Clyde Griffiths, in the name of the law!--yet because of instructions
from Mason, as well as Slack, grieving that instead, should he detect
any signs, being the furthermost outpost, he must, in order to avoid
frightening the prey or losing him, turn on his track and from some
point not so likely to be heard by the criminal fire one single shot
from his eight-chambered repeater, whereupon whichever party chanced to
be nearest would fire one shot in reply and then proceed as swiftly as
possible in his direction. But under no circumstances was he to attempt
to take the criminal alone, unless noting the departure by boat or on
foot of a suspicious person who answered the description of Clyde.
At this very hour, Clyde, with Harley Baggott, Bertine and Sondra, in
one of the canoes, paddling eastward along with the remainder of the
flotilla, looking back and wondering. Supposing by now, some officer or
some one had arrived at Sharon and was following him up here? For would
it be hard to find where he had gone, supposing only that they knew his
name?
But they did not know his name. Had not the items in the papers proved
that? Why worry so always, especially on this utterly wonderful trip
and when at last he and Sondra could be together again? And besides,
was it not now possible for him to wander off by himself into these
thinly populated woods along the shore to the eastward, toward that
inn at the other end of the lake--and not return? Had he not inquired
most casually on Saturday afternoon of Harley Baggott as well as others
as to whether there was a road south or east from the east end of the
lake? And had he not learned there was?
And at last, at noon, Monday, reaching Shelter Beach, the third spot of
beauty contemplated by the planners of this outing, where he helped to
pitch the tents again while the girls played about.
Yet at the same hour, at the Ramshorn site, because of the ashes
from their fires left upon the shore, young Swenk, most eagerly and
enthusiastically, like some seeking animal, approaching and examining
the same and then going on--swiftly. And but one hour later, Mason and
Kraut, reconnoitering the same spot, but without either devoting more
than a cursory glance, since it was obvious that the prey had moved
farther on.
But then greater speed in paddling on the part of Swenk, until by
four he arrived at Shelter Beach. And then, descrying as many as
a half dozen people in the water in the distance, at once turning
and retreating in the direction of the others in order to give the
necessary signal. And some two miles back firing one shot, which in its
turn was responded to by Mason as well as Sheriff Slack Both parties
had heard and were now paddling swiftly east.
At once Clyde in the water--near Sondra--hearing this was made to
wonder. The ominous quality of that first shot! Followed by those two
additional signals--farther away, yet seemingly in answer to the first!
And then the ominous silence thereafter! What was that? And with Harley
Baggott jesting: "Listen to the guys shooting game out of season, will
you? It's against the law, isn't it?"
"Hey, you!" Grant Cranston shouted. "Those are my ducks down there! Let
'em alone."
"If they can't shoot any better than you, Granty, they will let 'em
alone." This from Bertine.
Clyde, while attempting to smile, looked in the direction of the sound
and listened like a hunted animal.
What was it now that urged him to get out of the water and dress and
run? Hurry! Hurry! To your tent! To the woods, quick! Until at last
heeding this, and while most of the others were not looking, hurrying
to his tent, changing to the one plain blue business suit and cap that
he still possessed, then slipping into the woods back of the camp--out
of sight and hearing of all present until he should be able to think
and determine, but keeping always safely inland out of the direct view
of the water, for fear--for fear--who could tell exactly what those
shots meant?
Yet Sondra! And her words of Saturday and yesterday and to-day. Could
he leave her in this way, without being sure? Could he? Her kisses! Her
dear assurances as to the future! What would she think now--and those
others--in case he did not go back? The comment which was certain to
be made in the Sharon and other papers in regard to this disappearance
of his, and which was certain to identify him with this same Clifford
Golden or Carl Graham! was it not?
Then reflecting also--the possible groundlessness of these fears, based
on nothing more, maybe, than the chance shots of passing hunters on
the lake or in these woods. And then pausing and debating with himself
whether to go on or not. Yet, oh, the comfort of these tall, pillared
trees--the softness and silence of these brown, carpeting needles on
the ground--the clumps and thickets of underbrush under which one could
lie and hide until night should fall again. And then on--and on. But
turning, none-the-less, with the intention of returning to the camp to
see whether any one had come there. (He might say he had taken a walk
and got lost in the woods.)
But about this time, behind a protecting group of trees at least two
miles west of the camp, a meeting and conference between Mason, Slack
and all the others. And later, as a result of this and even as Clyde
lingered and returned somewhat nearer the camp, Mason, Swenk paddling
the canoe, arriving and inquiring of those who were now on shore if
a Mr. Clyde Griffiths was present and might he see him. And Harley
Baggott, being nearest, replying: "Why, yes, sure. He's around here
somewhere." And Stuart Finchley calling: "Eh-o, Griffiths!" But no
reply.
Yet Clyde, not near enough to hear any of this, even now returning
toward the camp, very slowly and cautiously. And Mason concluding that
possibly he was about somewhere and unaware of anything, of course,
deciding to wait a few minutes anyhow--while advising Swenk to fall
back into the woods and if by any chance encountering Slack or any
other to advise him that one man be sent east along the bank and
another west, while he--Swenk--proceeded in a boat eastward as before
to the inn at the extreme end, in order that from there word might be
given to all as to the presence of the suspect in this region.
In the meanwhile Clyde by now only three-quarters of a mile east, and
still whispered to by something which said: Run, run, do not linger!
yet lingering, and thinking _Sondra_, this wonderful life! Should he go
so? And saying to himself that he might be making a greater mistake by
going than by staying. For supposing those shots were nothing--hunters,
mere game shots meaning nothing in his case--and yet costing him all?
And yet turning at last and saying to himself that perhaps it might
be best not to return at present, anyhow at least not until very
late--after dark--to see if those strange shots had meant anything.
But then again pausing silently and dubiously, the while vesper
sparrows and woodfinches sang. And peering. And peeking nervously.
And then all at once, not more than fifty feet distant, out of the
long, tall aisles of the trees before him, a whiskered, woodsman-like
type of man approaching swiftly, yet silently--a tall, bony, sharp-eyed
man in a brown felt hat and a brownish-gray baggy and faded suit
that hung loosely over his spare body. And as suddenly calling as he
came--which caused Clyde's blood to run cold with fear and rivet him to
the spot.
"Hold on a moment, mister! Don't move. Your name don't happen to be
Clyde Griffiths, does it?" And Clyde, noting the sharp inquisitorial
look in the eye of this stranger, as well as the fact that he had
already drawn a revolver and was lifting it up, now pausing, the
definiteness and authority of the man chilling him to the marrow. Was
he really being captured? Had the officers of the law truly come for
him? God! No hope of flight now! Why had he not gone on? Oh, why not?
And at once he was weak and shaking, yet, not wishing to incriminate
himself about to reply, "No!" Yet because of a more sensible thought,
replying, "Why, yes, that's my name."
"You're with this camping party just west of here, aren't you?"
"Yes, sir, I am."
"All right, Mr. Griffiths. Excuse the revolver. I'm told to get you,
whatever happens, that's all. My name is Kraut. Nicholas Kraut. I'm
a deputy sheriff of Cataraqui County. And I have a warrant here for
your arrest. I suppose you know what for, and that you're prepared
to come with me peaceably." And at this Mr. Kraut gripped the heavy,
dangerous-looking weapon more firmly even, and gazed at Clyde in a
firm, conclusive way.
"Why--why--no--I don't," replied Clyde, weakly and heavily, his face
white and thin. "But if you have a warrant for my arrest, I'll go with
you, certainly. But what--what--I don't understand"--his voice began to
tremble slightly as he said this--"is--is why you want to arrest me?"
"You don't, eh? You weren't up at either Big Bittern or Grass Lake by
any chance on last Wednesday or Thursday, eh?"
"Why, no, sir, I wasn't," replied Clyde, falsely.
"And you don't happen to know anything about the drowning of a girl up
there that you were supposed to be with--Roberta Alden, of Biltz, New
York, I believe."
"Why, my God, no!" replied Clyde, nervously and staccatically, the true
name of Roberta and her address being used by this total stranger, and
so soon, staggering him. Then they knew! They had obtained a clue. His
true name and hers! God! "Am I supposed to have committed a murder?" he
added, his voice faint--a mere whisper.
"Then you don't know that she was drowned last Thursday? And you
weren't with her at that time?" Mr. Kraut fixed a hard, inquisitive,
unbelieving eye on him.
"Why, no, of course, I wasn't," replied Clyde, recalling now but one
thing--that he must deny all--until he should think or know what else
to do or say.
"And you didn't meet three men walking south last Thursday night from
Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay at about eleven o'clock?"
"Why, no, sir. Of course I didn't. I wasn't up there, I told you."
"Very well, Mr. Griffiths, I haven't anything more to say. All I'm
supposed to do is to arrest you, Clyde Griffiths, for the murder of
Roberta Alden. You're my prisoner." He drew forth--more by way of a
demonstration of force and authority than anything else--a pair of
steel handcuffs, which caused Clyde to shrink and tremble as though he
had been beaten.
"You needn't put those on me, mister," he pleaded. "I wish you
wouldn't. I never had anything like that on before. I'll go with you
without them." He looked longingly and sadly about at the trees, into
the sheltering depths of which so recently he ought to have plunged. To
safety.
"Very well, then," replied the redoubtable Kraut. "So long as you come
along peaceful." And he took Clyde by one of his almost palsied arms.
"Do you mind if I ask you something else," asked Clyde, weakly and
fearsomely, as they now proceeded, the thought of Sondra and the others
shimmering blindingly and reducingly before his eyes. Sondra! Sondra!
To go back there an arrested murderer! And before her and Bertine! Oh,
no! "Are you, are you intending to take me to that camp back there?"
"Yes, sir, that's where I'm intending to take you now. Them's my
orders. That's where the district attorney and the sheriff of Cataraqui
County are just now."
"Oh, I know, I know," pleaded Clyde, hysterically, for by now he had
lost almost all poise, "but couldn't you--couldn't you--so long as I go
along just as you want--those are all my friends, you know, back there,
and I'd hate ... couldn't you just take me around the camp somewhere
to wherever you want to take me? I have a very special reason--that
is--I--I, oh, God, I hope you won't take me back there right now--will
you please, Mr. Kraut?"
He seemed to Kraut very boyish and weak now--clean of feature, rather
innocent as to eye, well-dressed and well-mannered--not at all the
savage and brutal or murderous type he had expected to find. Indeed
quite up to the class whom he (Kraut) was inclined to respect. And
might he not after all be a youth of very powerful connections? The
conversations he had listened to thus far had indicated that this youth
was certainly identified with one of the best families in Lycurgus. And
in consequence he was now moved to a slight show of courtesy and so
added: "Very well, young man, I don't want to be too hard on you. After
all, I'm not the sheriff or the district attorney--just the arresting
officer. There are others down there who are going to be able to say
what to do about you--and when we get down to where they are, you can
ask 'em, and it may be that they won't find it necessary to take you
back in there. But how about your clothes? They're back there, ain't
they?"
"Oh, yes, but that doesn't matter," replied Clyde, nervously and
eagerly. "I can get those any time. I just don't want to go back now,
if I can help it."
"All right, then, come along," replied Mr. Kraut.
And so it was that they walked on together now in silence, the tall
shafts of the trees in the approaching dusk making solemn aisles
through which they proceeded as might worshipers along the nave of a
cathedral, the eyes of Clyde contemplating nervously and wearily a
smear of livid red still visible through the trees to the west.
Charged with murder! Roberta dead! And Sondra dead--to him! And the
Griffiths! And his uncle! And his mother! And all those people in that
camp!
Oh, oh, God, why was it that he had not run, when that something,
whatever it was, had so urged him?