And then out of the north woods a crime sensation of the first
magnitude, with all of those intriguingly colorful, and yet morally
and spiritually atrocious, elements--love, romance, wealth, poverty,
death. And at once picturesque accounts of where and how Clyde had
lived in Lycurgus, with whom he had been connected, how he had managed
to conceal his relations with one girl while obviously planning to
elope with another--being wired for and published by that type of
editor so quick to sense the national news value of crimes such as
this. And telegrams of inquiry pouring in from New York, Chicago,
Boston, Philadelphia, San Francisco and other large American cities
east and west, either to Mason direct or the representatives of the
Associated or United Press in this area, asking for further and more
complete details of the crime. Who was this beautiful wealthy girl with
whom it was said this Griffiths was in love? Where did she live? What
were Clyde's exact relations with her? Yet Mason, over-awed by the
wealth of the Finchleys and the Griffiths, loath to part with Sondra's
name, simply asserting for the present that she was the daughter of a
very wealthy manufacturer in Lycurgus, whose name he did not care to
furnish--yet not hesitating to show the bundle of letters carefully
tied with a ribbon by Clyde.
But Roberta's letters on the other hand being described in
detail,--even excerpts of some of them--the more poetic and gloomy
being furnished the Press for use, for who was there to protect her.
And on their publication a wave of hatred for Clyde as well as a wave
of pity for her--the poor, lonely, country girl who had had no one but
him--and he cruel, faithless,--a murderer even. Was not hanging too
good for him? For en-route to and from Bear Lake, as well as since,
Mason had pored over these letters. And because of certain intensely
moving passages relating to her home life, her gloomy distress as to
her future, her evident loneliness and weariness of heart, he had
been greatly moved, and later had been able to convey this feeling
to others--his wife and Heit and the local newspapermen. So much so
that the latter in particular were sending from Bridgeburg vivid, if
somewhat distorted, descriptions of Clyde, his silence, his moodiness,
and his hard-heartedness.
And then a particularly romantic young reporter from _The Star_, of
Utica arriving at the home of the Aldens, there was immediately given
to the world a fairly accurate picture of the weary and defeated Mrs.
Alden, who, too exhausted to protest or complain, merely contented
herself with a sincere and graphic picture of Roberta's devotion
to her parents, her simple ways of living, her modesty, morality,
religious devotion--how once the local pastor of the Methodist Church
had said that she was the brightest and prettiest and kindest girl he
had ever known, and how for years before leaving home she had been
as her mother's own right hand. And that undoubtedly because of her
poverty and loneliness in Lycurgus, she had been led to listen to the
honeyed words of this scoundrel, who, coming to her with promises of
marriage, had lured her into this unhallowed and, in her case, all but
unbelievable relationship which had led to her death. For she was good
and pure and sweet and kind always. "And to think that she is dead. I
can't believe it."
It was so that her mother was quoted.
"Only Monday a week ago she was about--a little depressed, I thought,
but smiling, and for some reason which I thought odd at the time went
all over the place Monday afternoon and evening, looking at things and
gathering some flowers. And then she came over and put her arms around
me and said: 'I wish I were a little girl again, mamma, and that you
would take me in your arms and rock me like you used to.' And I said,
'Why, Roberta, what makes you so sad to-night, anyhow?' And she said,
'Oh, nothing. You know I'm going back in the morning. And somehow I
feel a little foolish about it to-night.' And to think that it was this
trip that was in her mind. I suppose she had a premonition that all
would not work out as she had planned. And to think he struck my little
girl, she who never could harm anything, not even a fly." And here, in
spite of herself, and with the saddened Titus in the background, she
began to cry silently.
But from the Griffiths and other members of this local social world,
complete and almost unbreakable silence. For in so far as Samuel
Griffiths was concerned, it was impossible for him at first either to
grasp or believe that Clyde could be capable of such a deed. What! That
bland and rather timid and decidedly gentlemanly youth, as he saw him,
charged with murder? Being rather far from Lycurgus at the time--Upper
Saranac--where he was reached with difficulty by Gilbert,--he was
almost unprepared to think, let alone act. Why, how impossible! There
must be some mistake here. They must have confused Clyde with some one
else.
Nevertheless, Gilbert proceeding to explain that it was unquestionably
true, since the girl had worked in the factory under Clyde, and the
district attorney at Bridgeburg with whom he had already been in
communication had assured him that he was in possession of letters
which the dead girl had written to Clyde and that Clyde did not attempt
to deny them.
"Very well, then," countered Samuel. "Don't act hastily, and above all,
don't talk to any one outside of Smillie or Gotboy until I see you.
Where's Brookhart?"--referring to Darrah Brookhart, of counsel for
Griffiths & Company.
"He's in Boston to-day," returned his son. "I think he told me last
Friday that he wouldn't be back here until Monday or Tuesday."
"Well, wire him that I want him to return at once. Incidentally, have
Smillie see if he can arrange with the editors of _The Star_ and
_Beacon_ down there to suspend any comment until I get back. I'll be
down in the morning. Also tell him to get in the car and run up there"
(Bridgeburg) "to-day if he can. I must know from first hand all there
is to know. Have him see Clyde if he can, also this district attorney,
and bring down any news that he can get. And all the newspapers. I want
to see for myself what has been published."
And at approximately the same time, in the home of the Finchleys on
Fourth Lake, Sondra herself, after forty-eight hours of most macerating
thoughts spent brooding on the astounding climax which had put a
period to all her girlish fancies in regard to Clyde, deciding at last
to confess all to her father, to whom she was more drawn than to her
mother. And accordingly approaching him in the library, where usually
he sat after dinner, reading or considering his various affairs. But
having come within earshot of him, beginning to sob, for truly she was
stricken in the matter of her love for Clyde, as well as her various
vanities and illusions in regard to her own high position, the scandal
that was about to fall on her and her family. Oh, what would her mother
say now, after all her warnings? And her father? And Gilbert Griffiths
and his affianced bride? And the Cranstons, who except for her
influence over Bertine, would never have been drawn into this intimacy
with Clyde?
Her sobs arresting her father's attention, he at once paused to look
up, the meaning of this quite beyond him. Yet instantly sensing
something very dreadful, gathering her up in his arms, and consolingly
murmuring: "There, there! For heaven's sake, what's happened to my
little girl now? Who's done what and why?" And then, with a decidedly
amazed and shaken expression, listening to a complete confession of all
that had occurred thus far--the first meeting with Clyde, her interest
in him, the attitude of the Griffiths, her letters, her love, and then
this--this awful accusation and arrest. And if it were true! And her
name were used, and her daddy's! And once more she fell to weeping as
though her heart would break, yet knowing full well that in the end
she would have her father's sympathy and forgiveness, whatever his
subsequent suffering and mood.
And at once Finchley, accustomed to peace and order and tact and sense
in his own home, looking at his daughter in an astounded and critical
and yet not uncharitable way, and exclaiming: "Well, well, of all
things! Well, I'll be damned! I am amazed, my dear! I am astounded!
This is a little too much, I must say. Accused of murder! And with
letters of yours in your own handwriting, you say, in his possession,
or in the hands of this district attorney, for all we know by now. Tst!
Tst! Tst! Damned foolish, Sondra, damned foolish! Your mother has been
talking to me for months about this, and you know I was taking your
word for it against hers. And now see what's happened! Why couldn't you
have told me or listened to her? Why couldn't you have talked all this
over with me before going so far? I thought we understood each other,
you and I. Your mother and I have always acted for your own good,
haven't we? You know that. Besides, I certainly thought you had better
sense. Really, I did. But a murder case, and you connected with it! My
God!"
He got up, a handsome blond man in carefully made clothes, and paced
the floor, snapping his fingers irritably, while Sondra continued to
weep. Suddenly, ceasing his walking, he turned again toward her and
resumed with: "But, there, there! There's no use crying over it. Crying
isn't going to fix it. Of course, we may be able to live it down in
some way. I don't know. I don't know. I can't guess what effect this is
likely to have on you personally. But one thing is sure. We do want to
know something about those letters."
And forthwith, and while Sondra wept on, he proceeded first to call his
wife in order to explain the nature of the blow--a social blow that
was to lurk in her memory as a shadow for the rest of her years--and
next to call up Legare Atterbury, lawyer, state senator, chairman of
the Republican State Central Committee and his own private counsel for
years past, to whom he explained the amazing difficulty in which his
daughter now found herself. Also to inquire what was the most advisable
thing to be done.
"Well, let me see," came from Atterbury, "I wouldn't worry very much if
I were you, Mr. Finchley. I think I can do something to straighten this
out for you before any real public damage is done. Now, let me see. Who
is the district attorney of Cataraqui County, anyhow? I'll have to look
that up and get in touch with him and call you back. But never mind, I
promise you I'll be able to do something--keep the letters out of the
papers, anyhow. Maybe out of the trial--I'm not sure--but I am sure I
can fix it so that her name will not be mentioned, so don't worry."
And then Atterbury in turn calling up Mason, whose name he found in his
lawyers' directory, and at once arranging for a conference with him,
since Mason seemed to think that the letters were most vital to his
case, although he was so much overawed by Atterbury's voice that he was
quick to explain that by no means had he planned as yet to use publicly
the name of Sondra or the letters either, but rather to reserve their
actuality for the private inspection of the grand jury, unless Clyde
should choose to confess and avoid a trial.
But Atterbury, after referring back to Finchley and finding him opposed
to any use of the letters whatsoever, or Sondra's name either, assuring
him that on the morrow or the day after he would himself proceed to
Bridgeburg with some plans and political information which might cause
Mason to think twice before he so much as considered referring to
Sondra in any public way.
And then after due consideration by the Finchley family, it was
decided that at once, and without explanation or apology to any one,
Mrs. Finchley, Stuart and Sondra should leave for the Maine coast or
any place satisfactory to them. Finchley himself proposed to return
to Lycurgus and Albany. It was not wise for any of them to be about
where they could be reached by reporters or questioned by friends. And
forthwith, a hegira of the Finchleys to Narragansett, where under the
name of Wilson they secluded themselves for the next six weeks. Also,
and because of the same cause the immediate removal of the Cranstons
to one of the Thousand Islands, where there was a summer colony not
entirely unsatisfactory to their fancy. But on the part of the Baggotts
and the Harriets, the contention that they were not sufficiently
incriminated to bother and so remaining exactly where they were at
Twelfth Lake. But all talking of Clyde and Sondra--this horrible crime
and the probable social destruction of all those who had in any way
been thus innocently defiled by it.
And in the interim, Smillie, as directed by Griffiths, proceeding to
Bridgeburg, and after two long hours with Mason, calling at the jail
to see Clyde. And because of authorization from Mason being permitted
to see him quite alone in his cell. Smillie having explained that it
was not the intention of the Griffiths to try to set up any defense for
Clyde, but rather to discover whether under the circumstances there was
a possibility for a defense, Mason had urged upon him the wisdom of
persuading Clyde to confess, since, as he insisted, there was not the
slightest doubt as to his guilt, and a trial would but cost the county
money without result to Clyde--whereas if he chose to confess, there
might be some undeveloped reasons for clemency--at any rate, a great
social scandal prevented from being aired in the papers.
And thereupon Smillie proceeding to Clyde in his cell where brooding
most darkly and hopelessly he was wondering how to do. Yet at the
mere mention of Smillie's name shrinking as though struck. The
Griffiths--Samuel Griffiths and Gilbert! Their personal representative.
And now what would he say? For no doubt, as he now argued with himself,
Smillie, having talked with Mason, would think him guilty. And what
was he to say now? What sort of a story tell--the truth or what? But
without much time to think, for even while he was trying to do so
Smillie had been ushered into his presence. And then moistening his dry
lips with his tongue, he could only achieve, "Why, how do you do, Mr.
Smillie?" to which the latter replied, with a mock geniality, "Why,
hello, Clyde, certainly sorry to see you tied up in a place like this."
And then continuing: "The papers and the district attorney over here
are full of a lot of stuff about some trouble you're in, but I suppose
there can't be much to it--there must be some mistake, of course. And
that's what I'm up here to find out. Your uncle telephoned me this
morning that I was to come up and see you to find out how they come to
be holding you. Of course, you can understand how they feel down there.
So they wanted me to come up and get the straight of it so as to get
the charge dismissed, if possible--so now if you'll just let me know
the ins and outs of this--you know--that is----"
He paused there, confident because of what the district attorney had
just told him, as well as Clyde's peculiarly nervous and recessive
manner, that he would not have very much that was exculpatory to
reveal.
And Clyde, after moistening his lips once more, beginning with: "I
suppose things do look pretty bad for me, Mr. Smillie. I didn't think
at the time that I met Miss Alden that I would ever get into such a
scrape as this. But I didn't kill her, and that's the God's truth.
I never even wanted to kill her or take her up to that lake in the
first place. And that's the truth, and that's what I told the district
attorney. I know he has some letters from her to me, but they only show
that she wanted me to go away with her--not that I wanted to go with
her at all----"
He paused, hoping that Smillie would stamp this with his approval
of faith. And Smillie, noting the agreement between his and Mason's
assertions, yet anxious to placate him, returned: "Yes, I know. He was
just showing them to me."
"I knew he would," continued Clyde, weakly. "But you know how it is
sometimes, Mr. Smillie," his voice, because of his fears that the
sheriff or Kraut were listening, pitched very low. "A man can get in
a jam with a girl when he never even intended to at first. You know
that yourself. I did like Roberta at first, and that's the truth, and
I did get in with her just as those letters show. But you know that
rule they have down there, that no one in charge of a department can
have anything to do with any of the women under him. Well, that's what
started all the trouble for me, I guess. I was afraid to let any one
know about it in the first place, you see."
"Oh, I see."
And so by degrees, and growing less and less tense as he proceeded,
since Smillie appeared to be listening with sympathy, he now outlined
most of the steps of his early intimacy with Roberta, together with his
present defense. But with no word as to the camera, or the two hats or
the lost suit, which things were constantly and enormously troubling
him. How could he ever explain these, really? And with Smillie at the
conclusion of this and because of what Mason had told him, asking: "But
what about those two hats, Clyde? This man over here was telling me
that you admit to having two straw hats--the one found on the lake and
the one you wore away from there."
And Clyde, forced to say something, yet not knowing what, replying:
"But they're wrong as to my wearing a straw hat away from there, Mr.
Smillie, it was a cap."
"I see. But still you did have a straw hat up at Bear Lake, he tells
me."
"Yes, I had one there, but as I told him, that was the one I had with
me when I went up to the Cranstons' the first time. I told him that. I
forgot it and left it there."
"Oh, I see. But now there was something about a suit--a gray one, I
believe--that he says you were seen wearing up there but that he can't
find now? Were you wearing one?"
"No. I was wearing the blue suit I had on when I came down here.
They've taken that away now and given me this one."
"But he says that you say you had it dry-cleaned at Sharon, but that he
can't find any one there who knows anything about it. How about that?
Did you have it dry-cleaned there?"
"Yes, sir."
"By whom?"
"Well, I can't just remember now. But I think I can find the man if I
were to go up there again--he's near the depot," but at the same time
looking down and away from Smillie.
And then Smillie, like Mason before him, proceeding to ask about the
bag in the boat, and whether it had not been possible, if he could swim
to shore with his shoes and suit on, for him to have swam to Roberta
and assisted her to cling to the overturned boat. And Clyde explaining,
as before, that he was afraid of being dragged down, but adding now,
for the first time, that he had called to her to hang on to the boat,
whereas previously he had said that the boat had drifted away from
them. And Smillie recalled that Mason had told him this. Also, in
connection with Clyde's story of the wind blowing his hat off, Mason
had said he could prove by witnesses, as well as the U. S. Government
reports, that there was not a breath of air stirring on that most
halcyon day. And so, plainly, Clyde was lying. His story was too thin.
Yet Smillie, not wishing to embarrass him, kept saying: "Oh, I see,"
or, "To be sure," or "That's the way it was, was it?"
And then finally asking about the marks on Roberta's face and head. For
Mason had called his attention to them and insisted that no one blow
from a boat would make both abrasions. But Clyde sure that the boat
had only struck her once and that all the bruises had come from that
or else he could not guess from what they had come. But then beginning
to see how hopeless was all this explanation. For it was so plain from
his restless, troubled manner that Smillie did not believe him. Quite
obviously he considered his not having aided Roberta as dastardly--a
thin excuse for letting her die.
And so, too weary and disheartened to lie more, finally ceasing. And
Smillie, too sorry and disturbed to wish to cathechize or confuse him
further, fidgeting and fumbling and finally declaring: "Well, I'm
afraid I'll have to be going now, Clyde. The roads are pretty bad
between here and Sharon. But I've been mighty glad to hear your side
of it. And I'll present it to your uncle just as you have told it to
me. But in the meantime, if I were you, I wouldn't do any more talking
than I could help--not until you hear further from me. I was instructed
to find an attorney up here to handle this case for you, if I could,
but since it's late and Mr. Brookhart, our chief counsel, will be back
to-morrow, I think I'll just wait until I can talk to him. So if you'll
take my advice, you'll just not say anything until you hear from him or
me. Either he'll come or he'll send some one--he'll bring a letter from
me, whoever he is, and then he'll advise you."
And with this parting admonition, leaving Clyde to his thoughts and
himself feeling no least doubt of his guilt and that nothing less than
the Griffiths' millions, if so they chose to spend them, could save him
from a fate which was no doubt due him.