me, and you’re going to be my client, and we’re going to sit
down together to-morrow, or whenever you say so, and
you’re going to tell me all you think I ought to know, and I’m
going to tell you what I think I ought to know, and whether
I’m going to be able to help you. And I’m going to prove to
you that in every way that you help me, you’re helping
yourself, see? And I’m going to do my damnedest to get
you out of this. Now, how’s that, Clyde?”
He smiled most encouragingly and sympathetically—even
affectionately. And Clyde, feeling for the first time since his
arrival here that he had found some one in whom he could
possibly confide without danger, was already thinking it
might be best if he should tell this man all—everything—he
could not have said why, quite, but he liked him. In a quick,
if dim way he felt that this man understood and might even
sympathize with him, if he knew all or nearly all. And after
Belknap had detailed how eager this enemy of his—Mason
—was to convict him, and how, if he could but devise a
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reasonable defense, he was sure he could delay the case
until this man was out of office, Clyde announced that if he
would give him the night to think it all out, to-morrow or any
time he chose to come back, he would tell him all.
And then, the next day Belknap sitting on a stool and
munching chocolate bars, listened while Clyde before him
on his iron cot, poured forth his story—all the details of his
life since arriving at Lycurgus—how and why he had come
there, the incident of the slain child in Kansas City, without,
however, mention of the clipping which he himself had
preserved and then forgotten; his meeting with Roberta,
and his desire for her; her, pregnancy and how he had
sought to get her out of it—on and on until, she having
threatened to expose him, he had at last, and in great
distress and fright, found the item in The Times-Union and
had sought to emulate that in action. But he had never
plotted it personally, as Belknap was to understand. Nor
had he intentionally killed her at the last. No, he had not.
Mr. Belknap must believe that, whatever else he thought.
He had never deliberately struck her. No, no, no! It had
been an accident. There had been a camera, and the tripod
reported to have been found by Mason was unquestionably
his tripod. Also, he had hidden it under a log, after
accidentally striking Roberta with the camera and then
seeing that sink under the waters, where no doubt it still
was, and with pictures of himself and Roberta on the film it
contained, if they were not dissolved by the water. But he
had not struck her intentionally. No—he had not. She had
approached and he had struck, but not intentionally. The
boat had upset. And then as nearly as he could, he
described how before that he had seemed to be in a trance
almost, because having gone so far he could go no farther.
But in the meantime, Belknap, himself finally wearied and
confused by this strange story, the impossibility as he now
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saw it of submitting to, let alone convincing, any ordinary
backwoods jury of this region, of the innocence of these
dark and bitter plans and deeds, finally in great weariness
and uncertainty and mental confusion, even, getting up and
placing his hands on Clyde’s shoulders, saying: “Well, that’ll
be enough of this for to-day, Clyde, I think. I see how you
felt and how it all came about—also I see how tired you are,
and I’m mighty glad you’ve been able to give me the
straight of this, because I know how hard it’s been for you
to do it. But I don’t want you to talk any more now. There
are going to be other days, and I have a few things I want
to attend to before I take up some of the minor phases of
this with you to-morrow or next day. Just you sleep and rest
for the present. You’ll need all you can get for the work both
of us will have to do a little later. But just now, you’re not to
worry, because there’s no need of it, do you see? I’ll get
you out of this—or we will—my partner and I. I have a
partner that I’m going to bring around here presently. You’ll
like him, too. But there are one or two things that I want you
to think about and stick to—and one of these is that you’re
not to let anybody frighten you into anything, because either
myself or my partner will be around here once a day
anyhow, and anything you have to say or want to know you
can say or find out from us. Next you’re not to talk to
anybody—Mason, the sheriff, these jailers, no one—unless
I tell you to. No one, do you hear! And above all things,
don’t cry any more. For if you are as innocent as an angel,
or as black as the devil himself, the worst thing you can do
is to cry before any one. The public and these jail officers
don’t understand that—they invariably look upon it as
weakness or a confession of guilt. And I don’t want them to
feel any such thing about you now, and especially when I
know that you’re really not guilty. I know that now. I believe
it. See! So keep a stiff upper lip before Mason and
everybody.
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“In fact, from now on I want you to try and laugh a little—or
at any rate, smile and pass the time of day with these
fellows around here. There’s an old saying in law, you
know, that the consciousness of innocence makes any man
calm. Think and look innocent. Don’t sit and brood and look
as though you had lost your last friend, because you
haven’t. I’m here, and so is my partner, Mr. Jephson. I’ll
bring him around here in a day or two, and you’re to look
and act toward him exactly as you have toward me. Trust
him, because in legal matters he’s even smarter than I am
in some ways. And to-morrow I’m going to bring you a
couple of books and some magazines and papers, and I
want you to read them or look at the pictures. They’ll help
keep your mind off your troubles.”
Clyde achieved a rather feeble smile and nodded his head.
“From now on, too,—I don’t know whether you’re at all
religious—but whether you are or not, they hold services
here in the jail on Sundays, and I want you to attend ’em
regularly—that is, if they ask you to. For this is a religious
community and I want you to make as good an impression
as you can. Never mind what people say or how they look—
you do as I tell you. And if this fellow Mason or any of those
fellows around here get to pestering you any more, send
me a note.
“And now I’ll be going, so give me a cheerful smile as I go
out—and another one as I come in. And don’t talk, see?”
Then shaking Clyde briskly by the shoulders and slapping
him on the back, he strode out, actually thinking to himself:
“But do I really believe that this fellow is as innocent as he
says? Would it be possible for a fellow to strike a girl like
that and not know that he was doing it intentionally? And
then swimming away afterwards, because, as he says, if he
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went near her he thought he might drown too. Bad. Bad!
What twelve “men are going to believe that? And that bag,
those two hats, that missing suit! And yet he swears he
didn’t intentionally strike her. But what about all that
planning—the intent—which is just as bad in the eyes of the
law. Is he telling the truth or is he lying even now—perhaps
trying to deceive himself as well as me? And that camera—
we ought to get hold of that before Mason finds it and
introduces it. And that suit. I ought to find that and mention
it, maybe, so as to offset the look of its being hidden—say
that we had it all the time—send it to Lycurgus to be
cleaned. But no, no—wait a minute—I must think about
that.”
And so on, point by point, while deciding wearily that
perhaps it would be better not to attempt to use Clyde’s
story at all, but rather to concoct some other story—this one
changed or modified in some way which would make it
appear less cruel or legally murderous.
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Chapter 15