An American Tragedy by Theodore Dreiser

remember every other item of all your expenditures—but

not that item?” And now each juror was once more tense

and leaning forward. And Clyde noting their interest and

curiosity, and most likely suspicion, now returned:

“Well, I don’t know just how I came to forget that.”

“Oh, no, of course you don’t,” snorted Mason. “A man who

is planning to kill a girl on a lone lake has a lot of things to

think of, and it isn’t any wonder if you forget a few of them.

But you didn’t forget to ask the purser the fare to Sharon,

once you got to Three Mile Bay, did you?”

“I don’t remember if I did or not.”

“Well, he remembers. He testified to it here. You bothered

to ask the price of the room at Grass Lake. You asked the

price of the boat there. You even asked the price of the bus

fare to Big Bittern. What a pity you couldn’t think to ask the

price of the boat at Big Bittern? You wouldn’t be so nervous

about it now, would you?” and here Mason looked at the

jurors as much as to say: You see!

“I just didn’t think of it, I guess,” repeated Clyde.

“A very satisfactory explanation, I’m sure,” went on Mason,

sarcastically. And then as swiftly as possible: “I don’t

suppose you happen to recall an item of thirteen dollars and

twenty cents paid for a lunch at the Casino on July ninth—

the day after Roberta Alden’s death—do you or do you

not?” Mason was dramatic, persistent, swift—scarcely

giving him time to think or breathe, as he saw it.

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At this Clyde almost jumped, so startled was he by this

question and charge, for he did not know that they had

found out about the lunch. “And do you remember, too,”

went on Mason, “that over eighty dollars was found on you

when you were arrested?”

“Yes, I remember it now,” he replied.

As for the eighty dollars he had forgotten. Yet now he said

nothing, for he could not think what to say.

“How about that?” went on Mason, doggedly and savagely.

“If you only had fifty dollars when you left Lycurgus and over

eighty dollars when you were arrested, and you spent

twenty-four dollars and sixty-five cents plus thirteen for a

lunch, where did you get that extra money from?”

“Well, I can’t answer that just now,” replied Clyde, sullenly,

for he felt cornered and hurt. That was Sondra’s money and

nothing would drag out of him where he had gotten it.

“Why can’t you answer it?” roared Mason. “Where do you

think you are, anyhow? And what do you think we are here

for? To say what you will or will not answer? You are on trial

for your life—don’t forget that! You can’t play fast and loose

with law, however much you may have lied to me. You are

here before these twelve men and they are waiting to know.

Now, what about it? Where did you get that money?”

“I borrowed it from a friend.”

“Well, give his name. What friend?”

“I don’t care to.”

“Oh, you don’t! Well, you’re lying about the amount of

money you had when you left Lycurgus—that’s plain. And

under oath, too. Don’t forget that! That sacred oath that you

respect so much. Isn’t that true?”

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“No, it isn’t,” finally observed Clyde, stung to reason by this

charge.“I borrowed that money after I got to Twelfth Lake.”

“And from whom?”

“Well, I can’t say.”

“Which makes the statement worthless,” retorted Mason.

Clyde was beginning to show a disposition to balk. He had

been sinking his voice and each time Mason commanded

him to speak up and turn around so the jury could see his

face, he had done so, only feeling more and more resentful

toward this man who was thus trying to drag out of him

every secret he possessed. He had touched on Sondra,

and she was still too near his heart to reveal anything that

would reflect on her. So now he sat staring down at the

jurors somewhat defiantly, when Mason picked up some

pictures.

“Remember these?” he now asked Clyde, showing him

some of the dim and water-marked reproductions of

Roberta besides some views of Clyde and some others—

none of them containing the face of Sondra—which were

made at the Cranstons’ on his first visit, as well as four

others made at Bear Lake later, and with one of them

showing him holding a banjo, his fingers in position. “Recall

where these were made?” asked Mason, showing him the

reproduction of Roberta first.

“Yes, I do.”

“Where was it?”

“On the south shore of Big Bittern the day we were there.”

He knew that they were in the camera and had told Belknap

and Jephson about them, yet now he was not a little

surprised to think that they had been able to develop them.

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“Griffiths,” went on Mason, “your lawyers didn’t tell you that

they fished and fished for that camera you swore you didn’t

have with you before they found that I had it, did they?”

“They never said anything to me about it,” replied Clyde.

“Well, that’s too bad. I could have saved them a lot of

trouble. Well, these were the photos that were found in that

camera and that were made just after that change of heart

you experienced, you remember?”

“I remember when they were made,” replied Clyde, sullenly.

“Well, they were made before you two went out in that boat

for the last time—before you finally told her whatever it was

you wanted to tell her—before she was murdered out there

—at a time when, as you have testified, she was very sad.”

“No, that was the day before,” defied Clyde.

“Oh, I see. Well, anyhow, these pictures look a little

cheerful for one who was as depressed as you say she

was.”

“Well—but—she wasn’t nearly as depressed then as she

was the day before,” flashed Clyde, for this was the truth

and he remembered it.

“I see. But just the same, look at these other pictures.

These three here, for instance. Where were they made?”

“At the Cranston Lodge on Twelfth Lake, I think.”

“Right. And that was June eighteenth or nineteenth, wasn’t

it?”

“On the nineteenth, I think.”

“Well, now, do you recall a letter Roberta wrote you on the

nineteenth?”

“No, sir.”

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“You don’t recall any particular one?”

“No, sir.”

“But they were all very sad, you have said.”

“Yes, sir—they were.”

“Well, this is that letter written at the time these pictures

were made.” He turned to the jury.

“I would like the jury to look at these pictures and then listen

to just one passage from this letter written by Miss Alden to

this defendant on the same day. He has admitted that he

was refusing to write or telephone her, although he was

sorry for her,” he said, turning to the jury. And here he

opened a letter and read a long sad plea from Roberta.

“And now here are four more pictures, Griffiths.” And he

handed Clyde the four made at Bear Lake. “Very cheerful,

don’t you think? Not much like pictures of a man who has

just experienced a great change of heart after a most terrific

period of doubt and worry and evil conduct—and has just

seen the woman whom he had most cruelly wronged, but

whom he now proposed to do right by, suddenly drowned.

They look as though you hadn’t a care in the world, don’t

they?”

“Well, they were just group pictures. I couldn’t very well

keep out of them.”

“But this one in the water here. Didn’t it trouble you the least

bit to go in the water the second or third day after Roberta

Alden had sunk to the bottom of Big Bittern, and especially

when you had experienced such an inspiring change of

heart in regard to her?”

“I didn’t want any one to know I had been up there with her.”

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“We know all about that. But how about this banjo picture

here. Look at this!” And he held it out. “Very gay, isn’t it?”

he snarled. And now Clyde, dubious and frightened, replied:

“But I wasn’t enjoying myself just the same!”

“Not when you were playing the banjo here? Not when you

were playing golf and tennis with your friends the very next

day after her death? Not when you were buying and eating

thirteen-dollar lunches? Not when you were with Miss X

again, and where you yourself testified that you preferred to

be?”

Mason’s manner was snarling, punitive, sinister, bitterly

sarcastic.

“Well, not just then, anyhow—no, sir.”

“What do you mean—‘not just then’? Weren’t you where

you wanted to be?”

“Well, in one way I was—certainly,” replied Clyde, thinking

of what Sondra would think when she read this, as