indifferent public officials to Bridgeburg.
“If there is a God,” he exclaimed excitedly, “He will not let
such a scoundrel as this go unpunished! Oh, no, He will
not! ‘I have yet to see,’” he suddenly quoted, “‘the children
of the righteous forsaken or their seed begging for bread.’”
At the same time, a quivering compulsion for action
dominating him, he added: “I must talk to my wife about this
right away. Oh, yes, I must. No, no, you wait here. I must
tell her first, and alone. I’ll be back. I’ll be back. You just
wait here. I know it will kill her. But she must know about
this. Maybe she can tell us who this is and then we can
catch him before he manages to get too far away. But, oh,
my poor girl! My poor, dear Roberta! My good, kind, faithful
daughter!”
And so, talking in a maundering manner, his eyes and face
betraying an only half-sane misery, he turned, the
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shambling, automaton-like motions of his angular figure
now directing him to a lean-to, where, as he knew, Mrs.
Alden was preparing some extra dishes for the next day,
which was Sunday. But once there he paused in the
doorway without the courage to approach further, a man
expressing in himself all the pathos of helpless humanity in
the face of the relentless and inexplicable and indifferent
forces of Life!
Mrs. Alden turned, and at the sight of his strained
expression, dropped her own hands lifelessly, the message
of his eyes as instantly putting to flight the simple, weary
and yet peaceful contemplation in her own.
“Titus! For goodness’ sake! Whatever is the matter?”
Lifted hands, half-open mouth, an eerie, eccentric and
uncalculated tensing and then widening of the eyelids, and
then the word: “Roberta!”
“What about her? What about her? Titus—what about her?”
Silence. More of those nervous twitchings of the mouth,
eyes, hands. Then …“Dead! She’s been—been drowned!”
followed by his complete collapse on a bench that stood
just inside the door. And Mrs. Alden, staring for a moment,
at first not quite comprehending, then fully realizing, sinking
heavily and without a word to the floor. And Titus, looking at
her and nodding his head as if to say: “Quite right. So
should it be. Momentary escape for her from the
contemplation of this horrible fact.” And then slowly rising,
going to her and kneeling beside her, straightening her out.
Then as slowly going out to the door and around to the front
of the house where Orville Mason was seated on the
broken front steps, contemplating speculatively along with
the afternoon sun in the west the misery that this lorn and
incompetent farmer was conveying to his wife. And wishing
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for the moment that it might be otherwise—that no such
case, however profitable to himself, had arisen.
But now, at sight of Titus Alden, he jumped up and
preceded the skeleton-like figure into the lean-to. And
finding Mrs. Alden, as small as her daughter nearly, and
limp and still, he gathered her into his strong arms and
carried her through the dining-room into the living-room,
where stood an antiquated lounge, on which he laid her.
And there, feeling for her pulse, and then hurrying for some
water, while he looked for some one—a son, daughter,
neighbor, any one. But not seeing any one, hurrying back
with the water to dash a little of it on her face and hands.
“Is there a doctor anywhere near here?” He was addressing
Titus, who was now kneeling by his wife.
“In Biltz—yes—Dr. Crane.”
“Have you—has any one around here a telephone?”
“Mr. Wilcox.” He pointed in the direction of the Wilcox’s,
whose telephone Roberta had so recently used.
“Just watch her. I’ll be back.”
Forthwith he was out of the house and away to call Crane
or any other doctor, and then as swiftly returning with Mrs.
Wilcox and her daughter. And then waiting, waiting, until
first neighbors arrived and then eventually Dr. Crane, with
whom he consulted as to the advisability of discussing with
Mrs. Alden yet this day the unescapable mystery which had
brought him here. And Dr. Crane, very much impressed by
Mr. Mason’s solemn, legal manner, admitting that it might
even be best.
And at last Mrs. Alden treated with heroin and crooned and
mourned over by all present, being brought to the stage
where it was possible, slowly and with much
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encouragement, to hear in the first place what the
extenuating circumstances were; next being questioned
concerning the identity of the cryptic individual referred to in
Roberta’s letter. The only person whom Mrs. Alden could
recall as ever having been mentioned by Roberta as paying
particular attention to her, and that but once the Christmas
before, was Clyde Griffiths, the nephew of the wealthy
Samuel Griffiths, of Lycurgus, and the manager of the
department in which Roberta worked.
But this in itself, as Mason and the Aldens themselves at
once felt, was something which assuredly could not be
taken to mean that the nephew of so great a man could be
accused of the murder of Roberta. Wealth! Position!
Indeed, in the face of such an accusation Mason was
inclined to pause and consider. For the social difference
between this man and this girl from his point of view
seemed great. At that, it might be so. Why not? Was it not
likely that a youth of such a secure position would possibly
more than another, since she was so attractive as Heit had
said, be the one to be paying casual and secret attention to
a girl like Roberta? Did she not work in his uncle’s factory?
And was she not poor? Besides, as Fred Heit had already
explained, whoever it was that this girl was with at the time
of her death, she had not hesitated to cohabit with him
before marriage. And was that not part and parcel of a rich
and sophisticated youth’s attitude toward a poor girl? By
reason of his own early buffetings at the mood of chance
and established prosperity the idea appealed to him
intensely. The wretched rich! The indifferent rich! And here
were her mother and father obviously believing most firmly
in her innocence and virtue.
Further questioning of Mrs. Alden only brought out the fact
that she had never seen this particular youth, and had
never even heard of any other. The only additional data that
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either she or her husband could furnish was that during her
last home-coming of a month Roberta had not been feeling
at all well—drooped about the house and rested a good
deal. Also that she had written a number of letters which
she had given to the postman or placed in the delivery box
at the road-crossing below. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Alden
knew to whom they were addressed, although the postman
would be likely to know, as Mason quickly thought. Also,
during this period, she had been busy making some
dresses, at least four. And during the latter part of her stay,
she had been the recipient of a number of telephone calls—
from a certain Mr. Baker, as Titus had heard Mr. Wilcox
say. Also, on departing, she had taken only such baggage
as she had brought with her—her small trunk and her bag.
The trunk she had checked herself at the station, but just
where, other than Lycurgus, Titus could not say.
But now, suddenly, since he was attaching considerable
importance to the name Baker, there popped into Mason’s
mind: “Clifford Golden! Carl Graham! Clyde Griffiths!” and
at once the identity of the intitials as well as the related
euphony of the names gave him pause. An astounding
coincidence truly, if this same Clyde Griffiths had nothing to
do with this crime! Immediately he was anxious to go direct
to the mailman and question him.
But since Titus Alden was important not only as a witness in
identifying Roberta’s body and the contents of the suitcase
left by her at Gun Lodge but also to persuade the postman
to talk freely, he now asked him to dress and accompany
him, assuring him that he would allow him to return to-
morrow.
After cautioning Mrs. Alden to talk to no one in regard to
this, he now proceeded to the post office to question the
mailman. That individual when found, recalled, upon
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inquiry, and in the presence of Titus who stood like a
galvanized corpse by the side of the district attorney, that
not only had there been a few letters—no less than twelve
or fifteen even—handed him by Roberta, during her recent
stay here, but that all of them had been addressed to some
one in Lycurgus by the name of—let him see—Clyde
Griffiths—no less—care of General Delivery there.
Forthwith, the district attorney proceeded with him to a local
notary’s office where a deposition was made, after which he