hour and a half—or two hours at the most—the Cranston
lodge at Sharon, whereas by walking he would not arrive
until to-morrow,—was not that unwise, more dangerous?
Besides, he had promised Sondra and Bertine that he
would be there Tuesday. And here it was Friday! Again, by
tomorrow, might not a hue and cry be on—his description
sent here and there—whereas this morning—well, how
could Roberta have been found as yet? No, no. Better this
way. For who knew him here—or could identify him as yet
with either Carl Graham or Clifford Golden. Best go this way,
—speedily, before anything else in connection with her
developed. Yes, yes. And finally, the clock-hands pointing
to eight-ten, making his way out, his heart beating heavily
as he did so.
At the foot of this street was the launch which steamed from
here to Sharon. And as he loitered he observed the bus
from Raquette Lake approaching. It now occurred to him, if
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he encountered any one he knew on the steamer dock or
boat, could he not say that he was fresh from Raquette
Lake, where Sondra, as well as Bertine, had many friends,
or in case they themselves came down on the boat, that he
had been there the day before. What matter whose name
or lodge he mentioned—an invented one, if need be.
And so, at last, making his way to the boat and boarding it.
And later at Sharon, leaving it again and without, as he
thought, appearing to attract any particular attention at
either end. For, although there were some eleven
passengers, all strangers to him, still no one other than a
young country girl in a blue dress and a white straw hat,
whom he guessed to be from this vicinity, appeared to pay
any particular attention to him. And her glances were
admiring rather than otherwise, although sufficient, because
of his keen desire for secrecy, to cause him to retire to the
rear of the boat, whereas the others appeared to prefer the
forward deck. And once in Sharon, knowing that the
majority were making for the railway station to catch the first
morning train down, he followed briskly in their wake, only
to turn into the nearest lunch-room in order to break the
trail, as he hoped. For although he had walked the long
distance from Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay, and previously
had rowed all afternoon, and merely made a pretense of
eating the lunch which Roberta had prepared at Grass
Lake, still even now he was not hungry. Then seeing a few
passengers approaching from the station, yet none whom
he knew, he joined these again as though just coming to
the inn and launch from the train.
For at this time there had come to him the thought that this
south train from Albany, as well as Utica being due here at
this hour, it was only natural that he should seem to come
on that. Pretending first, therefore, to be going to the
station, yet stopping en route to telephone Bertine and
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Sondra that he was here, and being assured that a car
rather than a launch would be sent for him, he explained
that he would be waiting on the west veranda of the inn. En
route also he stopped at a news stand for a morning paper,
although he knew there could be nothing in it as yet. And
he had barely crossed to the veranda of the inn and seated
himself before the Cranston car approached.
And in response to the greeting of the Cranston family
chauffeur, whom he knew well, and who smiled most
welcomingly, he was now able to achieve a seemingly easy
and genial smile, though still inwardly troubled by his great
dread. For no doubt by now, as he persistently argued with
himself, the three men whom he had met had reached Big
Bittern. And by now both Roberta and he must assuredly
have been missed, and maybe, who knows, the upturned
boat with his hat and her veil discovered! If so, might they
not have already reported that they had seen such a man
as himself, carrying a bag, and making his way to the south
in the night? And, if so, would not that, regardless of
whether the body was found or not, cause them to become
dubious as to whether a double drowning had occurred?
And supposing by some strange chance her body should
come to the surface? Then what? And might there not be a
mark left by that hard blow he had given her? If so, would
they not suspect murder, and his body not coming up and
those men describing the man they had seen, would not
Clifford Golden or Carl Graham be suspected of murder?
But neither Clifford Golden nor Carl Graham were Clyde
Griffiths by any means. And they could not possibly identify
Clyde Griffiths—with either Clifford Golden or Carl Graham.
For had he not taken every precaution, even searching
through Roberta’s bag and purse there at Grass Lake while
at his request after breakfast she had gone back to see
about the lunch? Had he not? True, he had found those two
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letters from that girl, Theresa Bouser, addressed to Roberta
at Biltz, and he had destroyed them before ever leaving for
Gun Lodge. And as for that toilet set in its original case,
with the label “Whitely-Lycurgus” on it, while it was true that
he had been compelled to leave that, still might not any one
—Mrs. Clifford Golden, or Mrs. Carl Graham—have bought
that in Whitely’s, and so without the possibility of its being
traced to him? Assuredly. And as for her clothes, even
assuming that they did go to prove her identity, would it not
be assumed, by her parents as well as others, that she had
gone on this trip with a strange man by the name of Golden
or Graham, and would they not want that hushed up without
further ado? At any rate, he would hope for the best—keep
up his nerve, put on a strong, pleasant, cheerful front here,
so that no one would think of him as the one, since he had
not actually killed her, anyhow.
Here he was in this fine car. And Sondra, as well as
Bertine, waiting for him. He would have to say that he was
just up from Albany—had been on some errand over there
for his uncle which had taken all of this time since Tuesday.
And while he should be blissfully happy with Sondra, still
here were all of those dreadful things of which now all of
the time he would be compelled to think. The danger that in
some inadvertent way he had not quite covered all the
tracks that might lead to him. And if he had not! Exposure!
Arrest! Perhaps a hasty and unjust conviction—
punishment, even! Unless he was able to explain about that
accidental blow. The end of all his dreams in connection
with Sondra—Lycurgus—the great life that he had hoped
for himself. But could he explain as to that? Could he? God!
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Chapter 7
FROM Friday morning until the following Tuesday noon,
moving amid such scenes as previously had so exhilarated
and enthralled him, Clyde was now compelled to suffer the
most frightful fears and dreads. For, although met by
Sondra, as well as Bertine, at the door of the Cranston
lodge, and shown by them to the room he was to occupy,
he could not help but contrast every present delight here
with the danger of his immediate and complete destruction.
As he had entered, Sondra had poutingly whispered, so
that Bertine might not hear: “Baddie! Staying down there a
whole week when you might have been up here. And
Sondra planning everything for you! You ought to have a
good spanking. I was going to call up to-day to see where
you were.” Yet at the same time her eyes conveying the
infatuation that now dominated her.
And he, in spite of his troubled thoughts achieving a gay
smile,—for once in her presence even the terror of
Roberta’s death, his own present danger appeared to
dwindle. If only all went well, now,—nothing were traced to
him! A clear path! A marvelous future! Her beauty! Her
love! Her wealth. And yet, after being ushered to his room,
his bag having been carried in before him, at once
becoming nervous as to the suit. It was damp and wrinkled.
He must hide it on one of the upper shelves of a closet,
maybe. And the moment he was alone and the door locked,
taking it out, wet and wrinkled, the mud of the shores of Big
Bittern still about the legs—yet deciding perhaps not—
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perhaps he had better keep it locked in his bag until night
when he could better decide what to do. Yet tying up in a