But then greater speed in paddling on the part of Swenk,
until by four he arrived at Shelter Beach. And then,
descrying as many as a half dozen people in the water in
the distance, at once turning and retreating in the direction
of the others in order to give the necessary signal. And
some two miles back firing one shot, which in its turn was
responded to by Mason as well as Sheriff Slack. Both
parties had heard and were now paddling swiftly east.
At once Clyde in the water—near Sondra—hearing this was
made to wonder. The ominous quality of that first shot!
Followed by those two additional signals—farther away, yet
seemingly in answer to the first! And then the ominous
silence thereafter! What was that? And with Harley Baggott
jesting: “Listen to the guys shooting game out of season,
will you. It’s against the law, isn’t it?”
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810
“Hey, you!” Grant Cranston shouted. “Those are my ducks
down there! Let ’em alone.”
“If they can’t shoot any better than you, Granty, they will let
’em alone.” This from Bertine.
Clyde, while attempting to smile, looked in the direction of
the sound and listened like a hunted animal.
What was it now that urged him to get out of the water and
dress and run? Hurry! Hurry! To your tent! To the woods,
quick! Until at last heeding this, and while most of the
others were not looking, hurrying to his tent, changing to the
one plain blue business suit and cap that he still possessed,
then slipping into the woods back of the camp—out of sight
and hearing of all present until he should be able to think
and determine, but keeping always safely inland out of the
direct view of the water, for fear—for fear—who could tell
exactly what those shots meant?
Yet Sondra! And her words of Saturday and yesterday and
to-day. Could he leave her in this way, without being sure?
Could he? Her kisses! Her dear assurances as to the
future! What would she think now—and those others—in
case he did not go back? The comment which was certain
to be made in the Sharon and other papers in regard to this
disappearance of his, and which was certain to identify him
with this same Clifford Golden or Carl Graham! was it not?
Then reflecting also—the possible groundlessness of these
fears, based on nothing more, maybe, than the chance
shots of passing hunters on the lake or in these woods. And
then pausing and debating with himself whether to go on or
not. Yet, oh, the comfort of these tall, pillared trees—the
softness and silence of these brown, carpeting needles on
the ground—the clumps and thickets of underbrush under
which one could lie and hide until night should fall again.
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811
And then on—and on. But turning, none-the-less, with the
intention of returning to the camp to see whether any one
had come there. (He might say he had taken a walk and
got lost in the woods.)
But about this time, behind a protecting group of trees at
least two miles west of the camp, a meeting and
conference between Mason, Slack and all the others. And
later, as a result of this and even as Clyde lingered and
returned somewhat nearer the camp, Mason, Swenk
paddling the canoe, arriving and inquiring of those who
were now on shore if a Mr. Clyde Griffiths was present and
might he see him. And Harley Baggott, being nearest,
replying: “Why, yes, sure. He’s around here somewhere.”
And Stuart Finchley calling: “Eh-o, Griffiths!” But no reply.
Yet Clyde, not near enough to hear any of this, even now
returning toward the camp, very slowly and cautiously. And
Mason concluding that possibly he was about somewhere
and unaware of anything, of course, deciding to wait a few
minutes anyhow—while advising Swenk to fall back into the
woods and if by any chance encountering Slack or any
other to advise him that one man be sent east along the
bank and another west, while he—Swenk—proceeded in a
boat eastward as before to the inn at the extreme end, in
order that from there word might be given to all as to the
presence of the suspect in this region.
In the meanwhile Clyde by now only three-quarters of a
mile east, and still whispered to by something which said:
Run, run, do not linger! yet lingering, and thinking Sondra,
this wonderful life! Should he go so? And saying to himself
that he might be making a greater mistake by going than by
staying. For supposing those shots were nothing—hunters,
mere game shots meaning nothing in his case—and yet
costing him all? And yet turning at last and saying to himself
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812
that perhaps it might be” best not to return at present,
anyhow at least not until very late—after dark—to see if
those strange shots had meant anything.
But then again pausing silently and dubiously, the while
vesper sparrows and woodfinches sang. And peering. And
peeking nervously.
And then all at once, not more than fifty feet distant, out of
the long, tall aisles of the trees before him, a whiskered,
woodsman-like type of man approaching swiftly, yet silently
—a tall, bony, sharp-eyed man in a brown felt hat and a
brownish-gray baggy and faded suit that hung loosely over
his spare body. And as suddenly calling as he came—
which caused Clyde’s blood to run cold with fear and rivet
him to the spot.
“Hold on a moment, mister! Don’t move. Your name don’t
happen to be Clyde Griffiths, does it?” And Clyde, noting
the sharp inquisitorial look in the eye of this stranger, as
well as the fact that he had already drawn a revolver and
was lifting it up, now pausing, the definiteness and authority
of the man chilling him to the marrow. Was he really being
captured? Had the officers of the law truly come for him?
God! No hope of flight now! Why had he not gone on? Oh,
why not? And at once he was weak and shaking, yet, not
wishing to incriminate himself about to reply, “No!” Yet
because of a more sensible thought, replying, “Why, yes,
that’s my name.”
“You’re with this camping party just west of here, aren’t
you?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“All right, Mr. Griffiths. Excuse the revolver. I’m told to get
you, whatever happens, that’s all. My name is Kraut.
Nicholas Kraut. I’m a deputy sheriff of Cataraqui County.
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813
And I have a warrant here for your arrest. I suppose you
know what for, and that you’re prepared to come with me
peaceably.” And at this Mr. Kraut gripped the heavy,
dangerous-looking weapon more firmly even, and gazed at
Clyde in a firm, conclusive way.
“Why—why—no—I don’t,” replied Clyde, weakly and
heavily, his face white and thin. “But if you have a warrant
for my arrest, I’ll go with you, certainly. But what—what—I
don’t understand”—his voice began to tremble slightly as he
said this—“is—is why you want to arrest me?”
“You don’t, eh? You weren’t up at either Big Bittern or
Grass Lake by any chance on last Wednesday or Thursday,
eh?”
“Why, no, sir, I wasn’t,” replied Clyde, falsely.
“And you don’t happen to know anything about the
drowning of a girl up there that you were supposed to be
with—Roberta Alden, of Biltz, New York, I believe.”
“Why, my God, no!” replied Clyde, nervously and
staccatically, the true name of Roberta and her address
being used by this total stranger, and so soon, staggering
him. Then they knew! They had obtained a clue. His true
name and hers! God! “Am I supposed to have committed a
murder?” he added, his voice faint—a mere whisper.
“Then you don’t know that she was drowned last Thursday?
And you weren’t with her at that time?” Mr. Kraut fixed a
hard, inquisitive, unbelieving eye on him.
“Why, no, of course, I wasn’t,” replied Clyde, recalling now
but one thing—that he must deny all—until he should think
or know what else to do or say.
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814
“And you didn’t meet three men walking south last
Thursday night from Big Bittern to Three Mile Bay at about
eleven o’clock?”
“Why, no, sir. Of course I didn’t. I wasn’t up there, I told
you.”
“Very well, Mr. Griffiths, I haven’t anything more to say. All
I’m supposed to do is to arrest you, Clyde Griffiths, for the
murder of Roberta Alden. You’re my prisoner.” He drew forth
—more by way of a demonstration of force and authority
than anything else—a pair of steel handcuffs, which caused
Clyde to shrink and tremble as though he had been beaten.
“You needn’t put those on me, mister,” he pleaded. “I wish
you wouldn’t. I never had anything like that on before. I’ll go
with you without them.” He looked longingly and sadly
about at the trees, into the sheltering depths of which so