An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

should leave for the Maine coast or any place satisfactory to

them. Finchley himself proposed to return to Lycurgus and

Albany. It was not wise for any of them to be about where

they could be reached by reporters or questioned by

friends. And forthwith, a hegira of the Finchleys to

Narragansett, where under the name of Wilson they

secluded themselves for the next six weeks. Also, and

because of the same cause the immediate removal of the

Cranstons to one of the Thousand Islands, where there was

a summer colony not entirely unsatisfactory to their fancy.

But on the part of the Baggotts and the Harriets, the

contention that they were not sufficiently incriminated to

bother and so remaining exactly where they were at Twelfth

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Lake. But all talking of Clyde and Sondra—this horrible

crime and the probable social destruction of all those who

had in any way been thus innocently defiled by it.

And in the interim, Smillie, as directed by Griffiths,

proceeding to Bridgeburg, and after two long hours with

Mason, calling at the jail to see Clyde. And because of

authorization from Mason being permitted to see him quite

alone in his cell. Smillie having explained that it was not the

intention of the Griffiths to try to set up any defense for

Clyde, but rather to discover whether under the

circumstances there was a possibility for a defense, Mason

had urged upon him the wisdom of persuading Clyde to

confess, since, as he insisted, there was not the slightest

doubt as to his guilt, and a trial would but cost the county

money without result to Clyde—whereas if he chose to

confess, there might be some undeveloped reasons for

clemency—at any rate, a great social scandal prevented

from being aired in the papers.

And thereupon Smillie proceeding to Clyde in his cell where

brooding most darkly and hopelessly he was wondering

how to do. Yet at the mere mention of Smillie’s name

shrinking as though struck. The Griffiths—Samuel Griffiths

and Gilbert! Their personal representative. And now what

would he say? For no doubt, as he now argued with

himself, Smillie, having talked with Mason, would think him

guilty. And what was he to say now? What sort of a story tell

—the truth or what? But without much time to think, for

even while he was trying to do so Smillie had been ushered

into his presence. And then moistening his dry lips with his

tongue, he could only achieve, “Why, how do you do, Mr.

Smillie?” to which the latter replied, with a mock geniality,

“Why, hello, Clyde, certainly sorry to see you tied up in a

place like this.” And then continuing: “The papers and the

district attorney over here are full of a lot of stuff about

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some trouble you’re in, but I suppose there can’t be much

to it—there must be some mistake, of course. And that’s

what I’m up here to find out. Your uncle telephoned me this

morning that I was to come up and see you to find out how

they come to be holding you. Of course, you can

understand how they feel down there. So they wanted me

to come up and get the straight of it so as to get the charge

dismissed, if possible—so now if you’ll just let me know the

ins and outs of this—you know—that is——”

He paused there, confident because of what the district

attorney had just told him, as well as Clyde’s peculiarly

nervous and recessive manner, that he would not have very

much that was exculpatory to reveal.

And Clyde, after moistening his lips once more, beginning

with: “I suppose things do look pretty bad for me, Mr.

Smillie. I didn’t think at the time that I met Miss Alden that I

would ever get into such a scrape as this. But I didn’t kill

her, and that’s the God’s truth. I never even wanted to kill

her or take her up to that lake in the first place. And that’s

the truth, and that’s what I told the district attorney. I know

he has some letters from her to me, but they only show that

she wanted me to go away with her—not that I wanted to

go with her at all——”

He paused, hoping that Smillie would stamp this with his

approval of faith. And Smillie, noting the agreement

between his and Mason’s assertions, yet anxious to placate

him, returned: “Yes, I know. He was just showing them to

me.”

“I knew he would,” continued Clyde, weakly. “But you know

how it is sometimes, Mr. Smillie,” his voice, because of his

fears that the sheriff or Kraut were listening, pitched very

low. “A man can get in a jam with a girl when he never even

intended to at first. You know that yourself. I did like

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Roberta at first, and that’s the truth, and I did get in with her

just as those letters show. But you know that rule they have

down there, that no one in charge of a department can

have anything to do with any of the women under him.

Well, that’s what started all the trouble for me, I guess. I

was afraid to let any one know about it in the first place, you

see.”

“Oh, I see.”

And so by degrees, and growing less and less tense as he

proceeded, since Smillie appeared to be listening with

sympathy, he now outlined most of the steps of his early

intimacy with Roberta, together with his present defense.

But with no word as to the camera, or the two hats or the

lost suit, which things were constantly and enormously

troubling him. How could he ever explain these, really? And

with Smillie at the conclusion of this and because of what

Mason had told him, asking: “But what about those two

hats, Clyde? This man over here was telling me that you

admit to having two straw hats—the one found on the lake

and the one you wore away from there.”

And Clyde, forced to say something, yet not knowing what,

replying: “But they’re wrong as to my wearing a straw hat

away from there, Mr. Smillie, it was a cap.”

“I see. But still you did have a straw hat up at Bear Lake, he

tells me.”

“Yes, I had one there, but as I told him, that was the one I

had with me when I went up to the Cranstons’ the first time.

I told him that I forgot it and left it there.”

“Oh, I see. But now there was something about a suit—a

gray one, I believe—that he says you were seen wearing up

there but that he can’t find now? Were you wearing one?”

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“No. I was wearing the blue suit I had on when I came down

here. They’ve taken that away now and given me this one.”

“But he says that you say you had it dry-cleaned at Sharon

but that he can’t find any one there who knows anything

about it. How about that? Did you have it dry-cleaned

there?”

“Yes, sir.”

“By whom?”

“Well, I can’t just remember now. But I think I can find the

man if I were to go up there again—he’s near the depot,”

but at the same time looking down and away from Smillie.

And then Smillie, like Mason before him, proceeding to ask

about the bag in the boat, and whether it had not been

possible, if he could swim to shore with his shoes and suit

on, for him to have swam to Roberta and assisted her to

cling to the overturned boat. And Clyde explaining, as

before, that he was afraid of being dragged down, but

adding now, for the first time, that he had called to her to

hang on to the boat, whereas previously he had said that

the boat drifted away from them. And Smillie recalled that

Mason had told him this. Also, in connection with Clyde’s

story of the wind blowing his hat off, Mason had said he

could prove by witnesses, as well as the U. S. Government

reports, that there was not a breath of air stirring on that

most halcyon day. And so, plainly, Clyde was lying. His

story was too thin. Yet Smillie, not wishing to embarrass

him, kept saying: “Oh, I see,” or, “To be sure,” or “That’s the

way it was, was it?”

And then finally asking about the marks on Roberta’s face

and head. For Mason had called his attention to them and

insisted that no blow from a boat would make both

abrasions. But Clyde sure that the boat had only struck her

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once and that all the bruises had come from that or else he

could not guess from what they had come. But then

beginning to see how hopeless was all this explanation. For