“She only weighed a hundred pounds, didn’t she?” went on Mason feverishly.
“Yes, I think so.”
“And you — what did you weigh at the time?”
“About a hundred and forty,” replied Clyde.
“And a hundred and forty pound man,” sneered Mason, turning to the jury, “is afraid to go near a weak, sick, hundred-pound little girl who is drowning, for fear she will cling to him and drag him under!
And a perfectly good boat, strong enough to hold three or four up, within fifteen or twenty feet!
How’s that?”
And to emphasize it and let it sink in, he now paused, and took from his pocket a large white handkerchief, and after wiping his neck and face and wrists — since they were quite damp from his emotional and physical efforts — turned to Burton Burleigh and called:
“You might as well have this boat taken out of here, Burton.
We’re not going to need it for a little while anyhow.”
And forthwith the four deputies carried it out.
And then, having recovered his poise, he once more turned to Clyde and began with:
“Griffiths, you knew the color and feel of Roberta Alden’s hair pretty well, didn’t you?
You were intimate enough with her, weren’t you?”
“I know the color of it or I think I do,” replied Clyde wincing — an anguished chill at the thought of it affecting him almost observably.
“And the feel of it, too, didn’t you?” persisted Mason.
“In those very loving days of yours before Miss X came along — you must have touched it often enough.”
“I don’t know whether I did or not,” replied Clyde, catching a glance from Jephson.
“Well, roughly.
You must know whether it was coarse or fine — silky or coarse.
You know that, don’t you?”
“It was silky, yes.”
“Well, here’s a lock of it,” he now added more to torture Clyde than anything else — to wear him down nervously — and going to his table where was an envelope and from it extracting a long lock of light brown hair.
“Don’t that look like her hair?”
And now he shoved it forward at Clyde who shocked and troubled withdrew from it as from some unclean or dangerous thing — yet a moment after sought to recover himself — the watchful eyes of the jury having noted all.
“Oh, don’t be afraid,” persisted Mason, sardonically.
“It’s only your dead love’s hair.”
And shocked by the comment — and noting the curious eyes of the jury, Clyde took it in his hand.
“That looks and feels like her hair, doesn’t it?” went on Mason.
“Well, it looks like it anyhow,” returned Clyde shakily.
“And now here,” continued Mason, stepping quickly to the table and returning with the camera in which between the lid and the taking mechanism were caught the two threads of Roberta’s hair put there by Burleigh, and then holding it out to him.
“Just take this camera.
It’s yours even though you did swear that it wasn’t — and look at those two hairs there.
See them?”
And he poked the camera at Clyde as though he might strike him with it.
“They were caught in there — presumably — at the time you struck her so lightly that it made all those wounds on her face.
Can’t you tell the jury whether those hairs are hers or not?”
“I can’t say,” replied Clyde most weakly.
“What’s that?
Speak up.
Don’t be so much of a moral and mental coward.
Are they or are they not?”
“I can’t say,” repeated Clyde — but not even looking at them.
“Look at them. Look at them.
Compare them with these others.
We know these are hers.
And you know that these in this camera are, don’t you?
Don’t be so squeamish.
You’ve often touched her hair in real life.
She’s dead.