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
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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 earl
“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?”
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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 wier-
wier.
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,
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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.
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Book Three
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Chapter 1
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
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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 rowlocks—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—Goodbye.”
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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 New-
comb, 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. Well have to catch that 3:10. You can fill in a few
subpoenas 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 subpoenas,
and while stuffing these in his pocket, sought to get Mrs.