eagerly through his light hair and looked across the grass of
the public square to the jail where Clyde was, then toward
Belknap again.
“All very good, but how?” queried Belknap.
“There’s no other way, I tell you,” went on Jephson quite to
himself, and ignoring his senior, “and I think this will do it.”
He turned to look out the window again, and began as
though talking to some one outside: “He goes up there, you
see, because he’s frightened and because he has to do
something or be exposed. And he signs those registers just
as he did because he’s afraid to have it known by anybody
down there in Lycurgus that he is up there. And he has this
plan about confessing to her about this other girl. BUT,” and
now he paused and looked fixedly at Belknap, “and this is
the keystone of the whole thing—if this won’t hold water,
then down we go! Listen! He goes up there with her,
frightened, and not to marry her or to kill her but to argue
with her to go away. But once up there and he sees how
sick she is, and tired, and sad—well, you know how much
she still loves him, and he spends two nights with her, see?”
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“Yes, I see,” interrupted Belknap, curiously, but not quite so
dubiously now. “And that might explain those nights.”
“MIGHT? Would!” replied Jephson, slyly and calmly, his
harebell eyes showing only cold, eager, practical logic, no
trace of emotion or even sympathy of any kind, really.
“Well, while he’s up there with her under those conditions—
so close to her again, you see” (and his facial expression
never altered so much as by a line) “he experiences a
change of heart. You get me? He’s sorry for her. He’s
ashamed of himself—his sin against her. That ought to
appeal to these fellows around here, these religious and
moral people, oughtn’t it?”
“It might,” quietly interpolated Belknap, who by now was
very much interested and a little hopeful.
“He sees that he’s done her a wrong,” continued Jephson,
intent, like a spider spinning a web, on his own plan, “and in
spite of all his affection for this other girl, he’s now ready to
to the right thing by this Alden girl, do you see, because
he’s sorry and ashamed of himself. That takes the black
look off his plotting to kill her while spending those two
nights in Utica and Grass Lake with her.”
“He still loves the other girl, though?” interjected Belknap.
“Well, sure. He likes her at any rate, has been fascinated by
that life down there and sort of taken out of himself, made
over into a different person, but now he’s ready to marry
Roberta, in case, after telling her all about this other girl and
his love for her, she still wants him to.”
“I see. But how about the boat now and that bag and his
going up to this Finchley girl’s place afterwards?”
“Just a minute! Just a minute! I’ll tell you about that,”
continued Jephson, his blue eyes boring into space like a
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powerful electric ray. “Of course, he goes out in the boat
with her, and of course he takes that bag, and of course he
signs those registers falsely, and walks away through those
woods to that other girl, after Roberta is drowned. But why?
Why? Do you want to know why? I’ll tell you! He felt sorry
for her, see, and he wanted to marry her, or at least he
wanted to do the right thing by her at the very last there.
Not before, not before, remember, but after he had spent a
night with her in Utica and another one in Grass Lake. But
once she was drowned—and accidentally, of course, as he
says, there was his love for that other girl. He hadn’t ceased
loving her even though he was willing to sacrifice her in
order to do the right thing by Roberta. See?”
“I see.”
“And how are they going to prove that he didn’t experience
a change of heart if he says he did and sticks to it?”
“I see, but he’ll have to tell a mighty convincing story,”
added Belknap, a little heavily. “And how about those two
hats? They’re going to have to be explained.”
“Well, I’m coming to those now. The one he had was a little
soiled. And so he decided to buy another. As for that story
he told Mason about wearing a cap, well, he was frightened
and lied because he thought he would have to get out of it.
Now, of course, before he goes to that other girl afterwards
—while Roberta is still alive, I mean, there’s his relationship
with the other girl, what he intends to do about her. He’s
talking to Roberta, now you see,” he continued, “and that
has to be disposed of in some way. But, as I see it, that’s
easy, for of course after he experiences a change of heart
and wants to do the right thing by Roberta, all he has to do
is to write that other girl or go to her and tell her—about the
wrong he has done Roberta.”
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“Yes.”
“For, as I see it now, she can’t be kept out of the case
entirely, after all. We’ll have to ring her in, I’m afraid.”
“All right; then we have to,” said Belknap.
“Because you see, if Roberta still feels that he ought to
marry her—he’ll go first and tell that Finchley girl that he
can’t marry her—that he’s going away—that is, if Roberta
doesn’t object to his leaving her that long, don’t you see?”
“Yes.”
“If she does, he’ll marry her, either at Three Mile Bay or
some other place.”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t want to forget that while she’s still alive he’s
puzzled and distressed. And it’s only after that second
night, at Grass Lake, that he begins to see how wrong all
his actions have been, you understand. Something
happens. Maybe she cries or talks about wanting to die, like
she does in those letters.”
“Yes.”
“And so he wants a quiet place where they can sit down in
peace and talk, where no one else will see or hear them.”
“Yes, yes—go on.”
“Well, he thinks of Big Bittern. He’s been up there once
before or they’re near there, then, and just below there,
twelve miles, is Three Mile Bay, where, if they decide to
marry, they can.”
“I see.”
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“If not, if she doesn’t want to marry him after his full
confession, he can row her back to the inn, can’t he, and he
or she can stay there or go on.”
“Yes, yes.”
“In the meantime, not to have any delay or be compelled to
hang about that inn—it’s rather expensive, you know, and
he hasn’t any too much money—he takes that lunch in his
bag. Also his camera, because he wants to take some
pictures. For if Mason should turn up with that camera, it’s
got to be explained, and it will be better explained by us
than it will be by him, won’t it?”
“I see, I see,” exclaimed Belknap, intensely interested by
now and actually smiling and beginning to rub his hands.
“So they go out on the lake.”
“Yes.”
“And they row around.”
“Yes.”
“And finally after lunch on shore, some pictures taken——”
“Yes.”
“He decides to tell her just how things stand with him. He’s
ready, willing——”
“I get you.”
“Only just before doing that, he wants to take one or two
more pictures of her there in the boat, just off shore.”
“Yes.”
“And then he’ll tell her, see?”
“Yes.”
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“And so they go out in the boat again for a little row, just as
he did, see?”
“Yes.”
“But because they intend to go ashore again for some
flowers; he’s left the bag there, see? That explains the bag.”
“Yes.”
“But before taking any more pictures there, in the boat on
the water, he begins to tell her about his love for this other
girl—that if she wants him to, now he’ll marry her and then
write this Sondra a letter. Or, if she feels she doesn’t want
to marry him with him loving this other girl …”
“Yes, go on!” interrupted Belknap, eagerly.
“Well,” continued Jephson, “he’ll do his best to take care of
her and support her out of the money he’ll have after he
marries the rich girl.”
“Yes.”
“Well, she wants him tomarry her and drop this Miss
Finchley!”
“I see.”
“And he agrees?”
“Sure.”
“Also she’s so grateful that in her excitement, or gratitude,
she jumps up to come toward him, you see?”
“Yes.”
“And the boat rocks a little, and he jumps up to help her
because he’s afraid she’s going to fall, see?”
“Yes, I see.”