single bundle, in order to have them laundered, other odds
and ends he had worn that day. And, as he did so, terribly,
sickeningly conscious of the mystery and drama as well as
the pathos of his life—all he had contacted since his arrival
in the east, how little he had in his youth. How little he had
now, really. The spaciousness and grandeur of this room as
contrasted with the one he occupied in Lycurgus. The
strangeness of his being here at all after yesterday. The
blue waters of this bright lake without as contrasted with the
darker ones of Big Bittern. And on the green-sward that
reached from this bright, strong, rambling house, with its
wide veranda and striped awnings to the shore of the lake
itself, Stuart Finchley and Violet Taylor, together with Frank
Harriet and Wynette Phant, in the smartest of sport clothes,
playing tennis, while Bertine and Harley Baggott lolled in the
shade of a striped marquee swing.
And, he himself, after bathing and dressing, assuming a
jocular air although his nerves remained tense and his
mood apprehensive. And then descending to where Sondra
and Burchard Taylor and Jill Trumbull were laughing over
some amusing experiences in connection with motor-
boating the day before. Jill Trumbull called to him as he
came out: “Hello, Clyde! Been playing hookey or what? I
haven’t seen you in I don’t know when.” And he, after
smiling wistfully at Sondra, craving as never before her
sympathy as well as her affection, drawing himself up on
the railing of the veranda and replying, as smoothly as he
could: “Been working over at Albany since Tuesday. Hot
down there. It’s certainly fine to be up here to-day. Who’s all
up?” And Jill Trumbull, smiling: “Oh, nearly every one, I
guess. I saw Vanda over at the Randalls’ yesterday. And
Scott wrote Bertine he was coming to the Point next
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Tuesday. It looks to me as though no one was going over
to Greenwood much this year.” And then a long and intense
discussion as to why Greenwood was no longer what it had
been. And then Sondra exclaiming: “That reminds me! I
have to phone Bella to-day. She promised to come up to
that horse show over at Bristol week after next, sure.” And
then more talk of horses and dogs. And Clyde, listening
intently in his anxiety to seem an integral part of it all, yet
brooding on all that so desperately concerned him. Those
three men. Roberta. Maybe they had found her body by now
—who could tell, yet saying to himself—why so fearsome?
Was it likely that in that depth of water—fifty feet maybe, for
all he knew—that they would find her? Or that they could
ever identify him with Clifford Golden or Carl Graham? How
could they? Hadn’t he really and truly covered his tracks
except for those three men? Those three men! He shivered,
as with cold, in spite of himself.
And then Sondra, sensing a note of depression about him.
(She had determined from his obvious lack of equipment on
his first visit that perhaps the want of money was at the
bottom of his present mood, and so proposed later this day
to extract seventy-five dollars from her purse and force that
upon him in order that at no point where petty expenditures
should be required, should he feel the least bit
embarrassed during his stay this time.) And after a few
moments, thinking of the short golf course, with its variety
of concealing hazards for unseen kisses and embraces,
she now jumped up with: “Who’s for a mixed foursome?
Come on, Jill, Clyde, Burch! I’ll bet Clyde and I can turn in a
lower card than you two can!”
“I’ll take that!” exclaimed Burchard Taylor, rising and
straightening his yellow and blue striped sweater, “even if I
didn’t get in until four this morning. How about you, Jilly? If
you want to make that for the lunches, Sonny, I’ll take it.”
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And at once Clyde wincing and chilling, for he was thinking
of the miserable twenty-five dollars left him from all his
recent ghastly adventures. And a lunch for four here would
cost not less than eight or ten dollars! Perhaps more. At the
same time, Sondra, noting his expression, exclaimed:
“That’s a go!” and drawing near to Clyde tapped him gently
with her toe, exclaiming: “But I have to change. I’ll be right
down. In the meantime, Clyde, I’ll tell you what you do—go
and find Andrew and tell him to get the clubs, will you? We
can go over in your boat, can’t we, Burchy?” And Clyde,
hurrying to find Andrew, and thinking of the probable cost of
the lunch if he and Sondra were defeated, but being caught
up with by Sondra and seized by the arm. “Wait a minute,
honey, I’ll be right back.” Then dashing up the steps to her
room, and in a moment down again, a handful of bills she
had reserved shut tightly in her little fist: “Here, darling,
quick!” she whispered, taking hold of one of Clyde’s coat
pockets and putting the money into it. “Ssh! Not a word,
now! Hurry! It’s to pay for the lunch in case we lose, and
some other things. I’ll tell you afterwards. Oh, but I do love
you, baby boy!” And then, her warm, brown eyes fixed on
him for a moment in profound admiration, dashing up the
stairs again, from where she called: “Don’t stand there, silly!
Get the golf clubs! The golf clubs!” And she was gone.
And Clyde, feeling his pocket and realizing that she had
given him much—plenty, no doubt, for all of his needs while
here, as well as to escape if need be. And exclaiming to
himself: “Darling!”“Baby girl!” His beautiful, warm, generous
Sondra! She loved him so—truly loved him. But if ever she
should find out! Oh, God! And yet all for her, if she only
knew. All for her! And then finding Andrew and returning
with him carrying the bags.
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And here was Sondra again, dancing down in a smart
green knitted sports costume. And Jill in a new cap and
blouse which made her look like a jockey, laughing at
Burchard who was at the wheel of the boat. And Sondra
calling back to Bertine and Harley Baggott in the swing as
she was passing: “Hey, fellows! You won’t come, eh?”
“Where?”
“Casino Golf Club.”
“Oh, too far. See you after lunch on the beach, though.”
And then Burchard shooting the boat out in the lake with a
whir that set it bounding like a porpoise—and Clyde gazing
half in a dream, half delight and hope and the other half a
cloud of shadow and terror, with arrest and death, maybe,
stalking close behind. For in spite of all his preliminary
planning, he was beginning to feel that he had made a
mistake in openly coming out of the wood this morning. And
yet had it not been best, since the only alternative was that
of remaining there by day and coming out at night and
following the shore road on foot to Sharon? That would
have required two or three days. And Sondra, anxious as
well as curious about the delay, might have telephoned to
Lycurgus, thereby raising some question in regard to him
which might have proved dangerous later might it not?
But here now, this bright day, with seemingly no cares of
any kind, for these others at least, however dark and bleak
his own background might be. And Sondra, all gayety
because of his presence, now jumping up, her bright scarf
held aloft in one hand like a pennant, and exclaiming
foolishly and gayly: “Cleopatra sailing to meet—to meet—
who was it she was sailing to meet, anyhow?”
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“Charlie Chaplin,” volunteered Taylor, at the same time
proceeding to ricochet the boat as roughly and erratically as
possible in order to make her lose her balance.
“Oh, you silly!” returned Sondra, spreading her feet
sufficiently apart to maintain her equilibrium, and adding for
the benefit of Burchard: “No, you don’t either, Burchy,” then
continuing: “Cleopatra sailing, a-a-oh, I know, aquaplaning,”
and throwing her head back and her arms wide, while the
boat continued to jump and lurch like a frightened horse.
“See if you can upset me now, Burchy,” she called.
And Burchard, throwing the boat from side to side as swiftly
as he dared, with Jill Trumbull, anxious for her own safety,
calling: “Oh, say, what do you want to do? Drown us all?” at
which Clyde winced and blanched as though struck.
At once he felt sick, weak. He had never imagined that it
was going to be like this; that he was going to suffer so. He
had imagined that it was all going to be different. And yet
here he was, blanching at every accidental and unintended