He seemed to Kraut very boyish and weak now — clean of feature, rather innocent as to eye, well-dressed and well-mannered — not at all the savage and brutal or murderous type he had expected to find.
Indeed quite up to the class whom he (Kraut) was inclined to respect.
And might he not after all be a youth of very powerful connections?
The conversations he had listened to thus far had indicated that this youth was certainly identified with one of the best families in Lycurgus.
And in consequence he was now moved to a slight show of courtesy and so added:
“Very well, young man, I don’t want to be too hard on you.
After all, I’m not the sheriff or the district attorney — just the arresting officer.
There are others down there who are going to be able to say what to do about you — and when we get down to where they are, you can ask ’em, and it may be that they won’t find it necessary to take you back in there.
But how about your clothes?
They’re back there, ain’t they?”
“Oh, yes, but that doesn’t matter,” replied Clyde, nervously and eagerly.
“I can get those any time.
I just don’t want to go back now, if I can help it.”
“All right, then, come along,” replied Mr. Kraut.
And so it was that they walked on together now in silence, the tall shafts of the trees in the approaching dusk making solemn aisles through which they proceeded as might worshipers along the nave of a cathedral, the eyes of Clyde contemplating nervously and wearily a smear of livid red still visible through the trees to the west.
Charged with murder!
Roberta dead!
And Sondra dead — to him!
And the Griffiths!
And his uncle!
And his mother! and all those people in that camp!
Oh, oh, God, why was it that he had not run, when that something, whatever it was, had so urged him? ? Chapter 9
I n the absence of Clyde, the impressions taken by Mr. Mason of the world in which he moved here, complementing and confirming those of Lycurgus and Sharon, were sufficient to sober him in regard to the ease (possibly) with which previously he had imagined it might be possible to convict him.
For about him was such a scene as suggested all the means as well as the impulse to quiet such a scandal as this.
Wealth.
Luxury.
Important names and connections to protect no doubt.
Was it not possible that the rich and powerful Griffiths, their nephew seized in this way and whatever his crime, would take steps to secure the best legal talent available, in order to protect their name?
Unquestionably — and then with such adjournments as it was possible for such talent to secure, might it not be possible that long before he could hope to convict him, he himself would automatically be disposed of as a prosecutor and without being nominated for and elected to the judgeship he so craved and needed.
Sitting before the circle of attractive tents that faced the lake and putting in order a fishing-pole and reel, was Harley Baggott, in a brightly-colored sweater and flannel trousers.
And through the open flies of several tents, glimpses of individuals — Sondra, Bertine, Wynette and others — busy about toilets necessitated by the recent swim.
Being dubious because of the smartness of the company as to whether it was politically or socially wise to proclaim openly the import of his errand, he chose to remain silent for a time, reflecting on the difference between the experiences of his early youth and that of Roberta Alden and these others.
Naturally as he saw it a man of this Griffiths’ connections would seek to use a girl of Roberta’s connections thus meanly and brutally and hope to get away with it.
Yet, eager to make as much progress as he could against whatever inimical fates might now beset him, he finally approached Baggott, and most acidly, yet with as much show of genial and appreciative sociability as he could muster, observed:
“A delightful place for a camp, eh?”
“Yeh, we think so.”
“Just a group from the estates and hotels about Sharon, I suppose?”
“Yeh.
The south and west shore principally.”
“Not any of the Griffiths, other than Mr. Clyde, I presume?”
“No, they’re still over at Greenwood, I think.”
“You know Mr. Clyde Griffiths personally, I suppose?”
“Oh, sure — he’s one of the party.”
“You don’t happen to know how long he’s been up here this time, I presume — up with the Cranstons, I mean.”
“Since Friday, I think.
I saw him Friday morning, anyhow.
But he’ll be back here soon and you can ask him yourself,” concluded Baggott, beginning to sense that Mr. Mason was a little too inquisitive and in addition not of either his or Clyde’s world.
And just then, Frank Harriet, with a tennis racquet under his arm, striding across the foreground.
“Where to, Frankie?”
“To try those courts Harrison laid out up here this morning.”