testimony of the driver who drove you over—that you were
‘very nervous’ and that you asked him whether there were
many people over that that day?”
“I recall it, yes, sir, but I wasn’t nervous at all. I may have
asked about the people, but I can’t see anything wrong with
that. It seems to me that any one might ask that.”
“And so it seems to me,” echoed Jephson. “Then what
happened after you registered at Big Bittern Inn and got into
that boat and went out on the lake with Miss Alden? Were
you or she especially preoccupied or nervous or in any
state different from that of any ordinary person who goes
out on a lake to row? Were you particularly happy or
particularly gloomy, or what?”
“Well, I don’t think I was especially gloomy—no, sir. I was
thinking of all I was going to tell her, of course, and of what
was before me either way she decided. I wasn’t exactly
gay, I guess, but I thought it would be all right whichever
way things went. I had decided that I was willing to marry
her.”
“And how about her? Was she quite cheerful?”
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“Well—yes, sir. She seemed to feel much happier for some
reason.”
“And what did you talk about?”
“Oh, about the lake first—how beautiful it was and where
we would have our lunch when we were ready for it. And
then we rowed along the west shore looking for water lilies.
She was so happy that I hated to bring up anything just
then, and so we just kept on rowing until about two, when
we stopped for lunch.”
“Just where was that? Just get up and trace on the map
with that pointer there just where you did go and how long
you stopped and for what.”
And so Clyde, pointer in hand and standing before the large
map of the lake and region which particularly concerned
this tragedy, now tracing in detail the long row along the
shore, a group of trees, which, after having lunch, they had
rowed to see—a beautiful bed of water lilies which they had
lingered over—each point at which they had stopped, until
reaching Moon Cove at about five in the afternoon, they
had been so entranced by its beauty that they had merely
sat and gazed, as he said. Afterwards, in order that he
might take some pictures, they had gone ashore in the
woods nearby —he all the while preparing himself to tell
Roberta of Miss X and ask her for her final decision. And
then having left the bag on shore for a few moments while
they rowed out and took some snapshots in the boat, they
had drifted in the calmof the water and the stillness and
beauty until finally he had gathered sufficient courage to tell
her what was in his heart. And at first, as he now said,
Roberta seemed greatly startled and depressed and began
crying a little, saying that perhaps it was best for her not to
live any longer—she felt so miserable. But, afterwards,
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when he had impressed on her the fact that he was really
sorry and perfectly willing to make amends, she had
suddenly changed and begun to grow more cheerful, and
then of a sudden, in a burst of tenderness and gratefulness
—he could not say exactly—she had jumped up and tried to
come to him. Her arms were outstretched and she moved
as if to throw herself at his feet or into his lap. But just then,
her foot, or her dress, had caught and she had stumbled.
And he—camera in hand—(a last minute decision or legal
precaution on the part of Jephson)—had risen instinctively
to try to catch her and stop her fall. Perhaps—he would not
be able to say here—her face or hand had struck the
camera. At any rate, the next moment, before he quite
understood how it all happened, and without time for
thought or action on his part or hers, both were in the water
and the boat, which had overturned, seemed to have struck
Roberta, for she seemed to be stunned.
“I called to her to try to get to the boat—it was moving away
—to take hold of it, but she didn’t seem to hear me or
understand what I meant. I was afraid to go too near her at
first because she was striking out in every direction—and
before I could swim ten strokes forward her head had gone
down once and come up and then gone down again for a
second time. By then the boat had floated all of thirty or
forty feet away and I knew that I couldn’t get her into that.
And then I decided that if I wanted to save myself I had
better swim ashore.”
And once there, as he now narrated, it suddenly occurred to
him how peculiar and suspicious were all the circumstances
surrounding his present position. He suddenly realized, as
he now said, how bad the whole thing looked from the
beginning. The false registering. The fact his bag was there
—hers not. Besides, to return now meant that he would
have to explain and it would become generally known—and
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1033
everything connected with his life would go—Miss X, his
work, his social position—all—whereas, if he said nothing
(and here it was, and for the first time, as he now swore,
that this thought occurred to him), it might be assumed that
he too had drowned. In view of this fact and that any
physical help he might now give her would not restore her
to life, and that acknowledgment would mean only trouble
for him and shame for her, he decided to say nothing. And
so, to remove all traces, he had taken off his clothes and
wrung them out and wrapped them for packing as best he
could. Next, having left the tripod on shore with his bag, he
decided to hide that, and did. His first straw hat, the one
without the lining (but about which absent lining he now
declared he knew nothing), had been lost with the
overturning of the boat, and so now he had put on the extra
one he had with him, although he also had a cap which he
might have worn. (He usually carried an extra hat on a trip
because so often, it seemed, something happened to one.)
Then he had ventured to walk south through the woods
toward a railroad which he thought cut through the woods in
that direction. He had not known of any automobile road
through there then, and as for making for the Cranstons’ so
directly, he confessed quite simply that he would naturally
have gone there. They were his friends and he wanted to
get off somewhere where he could think about this terrible
thing that had descended upon him so suddenly out of a
clear sky.
And then having testified to so much—and no more
appearing to occur either to Jephson or himself—the former
after a pause now turned and said, most distinctly and yet
somehow quietly:
“Now, Clyde, you have taken a solemn oath before this jury,
this judge, all these people here, and above all your God, to
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1034
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. You
realize what that means, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir, I do.”
“You swear before God that you did not strike Roberta
Alden in that boat?”
“I swear. I did not.”
“Or throw her into the lake?”
“I swear it. I did not.”
“Or willfully or willingly in any way attempt to upset that boat
or in any other fashion bring about the death that she
suffered?”
“I swear it!” cried Clyde, emphatically and emotionally.
“You swear that it was an accident—unpremeditated and
undesigned by you?”
“I do,” lied Clyde, who felt that in fighting for his life he was
telling a part of the truth, for that accident was
unpremeditated and undesigned. It had not been as he had
planned and he could swear to that.
And then Jephson, running one of his large strong hands
over his face and looking blandly and nonchalantly around
upon the court and jury, the while he compressed his thin
lips into a long and meaningful line, announced: “The
prosecution may take the witness.”
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Chapter 25
THE mood of Mason throughout the entire direct
examination was that of a restless harrier anxious to be off
at the heels of its prey—of a foxhound within the last leap of
its kill. A keen and surging desire to shatter this testimony,
to show it to be from start to finish the tissue of lies that in
part at least it was, now animated him. And no sooner had
Jephson concluded than he leaped up and confronted
Clyde, who, seeing him blazing with this desire to undo him,