waxy paleness of his face, he assumed must be Clyde. And
at once he now approached him, as might an angry wasp
or hornet, only pausing first to ask of Swenk where he had
been captured and by whom—then gazing at Clyde critically
and austerely as befitted one who represented the power
and majesty of the law.
“So you are Clyde Griffiths, are you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, Mr. Griffiths, my name is Orville Mason. I am the
district attorney of the county in which Big Bittern and Grass
Lake are situated. I suppose you are familiar enough with
those two places by now, aren’t you?”
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821
He paused to see the effect of this sardonic bit of
commentary. Yet although he expected to see him wince
and quail, Clyde merely gazed at him, his nervous, dark
eyes showing enormous strain. “No, sir, I can’t say that I
am.”
For with each step through the woods thus far back, there
had been growing within him the utter and unshakable
conviction that in the face of whatever seeming proof or
charges might now appear, he dared not tell anything in
regard to himself, his connection with Roberta, his visit to
Big Bittern or Grass Lake. He dared not. For that would be
the same as a confession of guilt in connection with
something of which he was not really guilty. And no one
must believe—never—Sondra, or the Griffiths, or any of
these fine friends of his, that he could ever have been guilty
of such a thought, even. And yet here they were, all within
call, and at any moment might approach and so learn the
meaning of his arrest. And while he felt the necessity for so
denying any knowledge in connection with all this, at the
same time he stood in absolute terror of this man—the
opposition and irritated mood such an attitude might arouse
in him. That broken nose. His large, stern eyes.
And then Mason, eyeing him as one might an unheard-of
and yet desperate animal and irritated also by his denial,
yet assuming from his blanched expression that he might
and no doubt would shortly be compelled to confess his
guilt, continuing with: “You know what you are charged with,
Mr. Griffiths, of course.”
“Yes, sir, I just heard it from this man here.”
“And you admit it?”
An American Tragedy
822
“Why, no sir, of course I don’t admit it,” replied Clyde, his
thin and now white lips drawn tight over his even teeth, his
eyes full of a deep, tremulous yet evasive terror.
“Why, what nonsense! What effrontery! You deny being up
to Grass Lake and Big Bittern on last Wednesday and
Thursday?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, then,” and now Mason stiffened himself in an angry
and at the same time inquisitorial way, “I suppose you are
going to deny knowing Roberta Alden—the girl you took to
Grass Lake, and then out on Big Bittern in that boat last
Thursday—the girl you knew in Lycurgus all last year, who
lived at Mrs. Gilpin’s and worked under you in your
department at Griffiths & Company—the girl to whom you
gave that toilet set last Christmas! I suppose you’re going to
say that your name isn’t Clyde Griffiths and that you haven’t
been living with Mrs. Peyton. in Taylor Street, and that
these aren’t letters and cards from your trunk there—from
Roberta Alden and from Miss Finchley, all these cards and
notes.” And extracting the letters and cards as he spoke
and waving them before Clyde. And at each point in this
harangue, thrusting his broad face, with its flat, broken nose
and somewhat aggressive chin directly before Clyde’s, and
blazing at him with sultry, contemptuous eyes, while the
latter leaned away from him, wincing almost perceptibly and
with icy chills running up and down his spine and affecting
his heart and brain. Those letters! All this information
concerning him! And back in his bag in the tent there, all
those more recent letters of Sondra’s in which she dwelt on
how they were to elope together this coming fall. If only he
had destroyed them! And now this man might find those—
would—and question Sondra maybe, and all these others.
He shrunk and congealed spiritually, the revealing effects of
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823
his so poorly conceived and executed scheme weighing
upon him as the world upon the shoulders of an inadequate
Atlas.
And yet, feeling that he must say something and yet not
admit anything. And finally replying: “My name’s Clyde
Griffiths all right, but the rest of this isn’t true. I don’t know
anything about the rest of it.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Griffiths! Don’t begin by trying to play
fast and loose with me. We won’t get anywhere that way.
You won’t help yourself one bit by that with me, and
besides I haven’t any time for that now. Remember these
men here are witnesses to what you say. I’ve just come
from Lycurgus—your room at Mrs. Peyton’s—and I have in
my possession your trunk and this Miss Alden’s letters to
you—indisputable proof that you did know this girl, that you
courted and seduced her last winter, and that since then—
this spring—when she became pregnant on your account,
you induced her first to go home and then later to go away
with you on this trip in order, as you told her, to marry her.
Well, you married her all right—to the grave—that’s how
you married her—to the water at the bottom of Big Bittern
Lake! And you can actually stand here before me now,
when I tell you that I have all the evidence I need right on
my person, and say that you don’t even know her! Well, I’ll
be damned!”
And as he spoke his voice grew so loud that Clyde feared
that it could be clearly heard in the camp beyond. And that
Sondra herself might hear it and come over. And although
at the outrush and jab and slash of such dooming facts as
Mason so rapidly outlined, his throat tightened and his
hands were with difficulty restrained from closing and
clinching vise-wise, at the conclusion of it all he merely
replied: “Yes, sir.”
An American Tragedy
824
“Well, I’ll be damned!” reiterated Mason. “I can well believe
now that you would kill a girl and sneak away in just such a
way as you did—and with her in that condition! But then to
try to deny her own letters to you! Why, you might as well
try to deny that you’re here and alive. These cards and
notes here—what about them? I suppose they’re not from
Miss Finchley? How about those? Do you mean to tell me
these are not from her either?”
He waved them before Clyde’s eyes. And Clyde, seeing
that the truth concerning these, Sondra being within call,
was capable of being substantiated here and now, replied:
“No, I don’t deny that those are from her.”
“Very good. But these others from your trunk in the same
room are not from Miss Alden to you?”
“I don’t care to say as to that,” he replied, blinking feebly as
Mason waved Roberta’s letters before him.
“Tst! Tst! Tst! Of all things,” clicked Mason in high dudgeon.
“Such nonsense! Such effrontery! Oh, very well, we won’t
worry about all that now. I can easily prove it all when the
time comes. But how you can stand there and deny it,
knowing that I have the evidence, is beyond me! A card in
your own handwriting which you forgot to take out of the
bag you had her leave at Gun Lodge while you took yours
with you. Mr. Carl Graham, Mr. Clifford Golden, Mr. Clyde
Griffiths,—a card on which you wrote ‘From Clyde to Bert,
Merry Xmas.’ Do you remember that? Well, here it is.” And
here he reached into his pocket and drew forth the small
card taken from the toilet set and waved it under Clyde’s
nose. “Have you forgotten that, too? Your own handwriting!”
And then pausing and getting no reply, finally adding: “Why,
what a dunce you are!—what a poor plotter, without even
the brains not to use your own initials in getting up those
An American Tragedy
825
fake names you had hoped to masquerade under—Mr. Carl
Graham—Mr. Clifford Golden!”
At the same time, fully realizing the importance of a
confession and wondering how it was to be brought about
here and now, Mason suddenly—Clyde’s expression, his
frozen-faced terror, suggesting the thought that perhaps he
was too frightened to talk at once changed his tactics—at
least to the extent of lowering his voice, smoothing the
formidable wrinkles from his forehead and about his mouth.
“You see, it’s this way, Griffiths,” he now began, much more
calmly and simply. “Lying or just foolish thoughtless denial
under such circumstances as these can’t help you in the
least. It can only harm you, and that’s the truth. You may
think I’ve been a little rough so far, but it was only because