Want to see it?”
He poked it genially and authoritatively through the narrow bars toward which Clyde, now curious and dubious, approached.
For there was something so whole-hearted and unusual and seemingly sympathetic and understanding in this man’s voice that Clyde took courage.
And without hesitancy, therefore, he took the letter and looked at it, then returned it with a smile.
“There, I thought so,” went on Belknap, most convincingly and pleased with his effect, which he credited entirely to his own magnetism and charm.
“That’s better.
I know we’re going to get along.
I can feel it.
You are going to be able to talk to me as easily and truthfully as you would to your mother.
And without any fear that any word of anything you ever tell me is going to reach another ear, unless you want it to, see?
For I’m going to be your lawyer, Clyde, if you’ll let 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 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 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.