For was he not now a victor and an elected judge!
And as instantly being set upon by a circling, huzzahing mass — the while a score of those nearest sought to seize him by the hand or place a grateful pat upon his arm or shoulder.
“Hurrah for Orville!”
“Good for you, Judge!” (his new or fast-approaching title). “By God! Orville Mason, you deserve the thanks of this county!”
“Hy-oh!
Heigh! Heigh!”
“Three cheers for Orville Mason!”
And with that the crowd bursting into three resounding huzzahs — which Clyde in his cell could clearly hear and at the same time sense the meaning of.
They were cheering Mason for convicting him.
In that large crowd out there there was not one who did not believe him totally and completely guilty.
Roberta — her letters — her determination to make him marry her — her giant fear of exposure — had dragged him down to this.
To conviction.
To death, maybe.
Away from all he had longed for — away from all he had dreamed he might possess.
And Sondra!
Sondra!
Not a word!
Not a word!
And so now, fearing that Kraut or Sissel or some one might be watching (ready to report even now his every gesture), and not willing to show after all how totally collapsed and despondent he really was, he sat down and taking up a magazine pretended to read, the while he looked far, far beyond it to other scenes — his mother — his brother and sisters — the Griffiths — all he had known.
But finding these unsubstantiated mind visions a little too much, he finally got up and throwing off his clothes climbed into his iron cot.
“Convicted!
Convicted!”
And that meant that he must die!
God!
But how blessed to be able to conceal his face upon a pillow and not let any one see — however accurately they might guess! ? Chapter 27
T he dreary aftermath of a great contest and a great failure, with the general public from coast to coast — in view of this stern local interpretation of the tragedy — firmly convinced that Clyde was guilty and, as heralded by the newspapers everywhere, that he had been properly convicted.
The pathos of that poor little murdered country girl!
Her sad letters!
How she must have suffered!
That weak defense!
Even the Griffiths of Denver were so shaken by the evidence as the trial had progressed that they scarcely dared read the papers openly — one to the other — but, for the most part, read of it separately and alone, whispering together afterwards of the damning, awful deluge of circumstantial evidence.
Yet, after reading Belknap’s speech and Clyde’s own testimony, this little family group that had struggled along together for so long coming to believe in their own son and brother in spite of all they had previously read against him.
And because of this — during the trial as well as afterwards — writing him cheerful and hopeful letters, based frequently on letters from him in which he insisted over and over again that he was not guilty.
Yet once convicted, and out of the depths of his despair wiring his mother as he did — and the papers confirming it — absolute consternation in the Griffiths family.
For was not this proof?
Or, was it?
All the papers seemed to think so.
And they rushed reporters to Mrs. Griffiths, who, together with her little brood, had sought refuge from the unbearable publicity in a remote part of Denver entirely removed from the mission world.
A venal moving-van company had revealed her address.
And now this American witness to the rule of God upon earth, sitting in a chair in her shabby, nondescript apartment, hard- pressed for the very means to sustain herself — degraded by the milling forces of life and the fell and brutal blows of chance — yet serene in her trust — and declaring:
“I cannot think this morning.
I seem numb and things look strange to me.
My boy found guilty of murder!
But I am his mother and I am not convinced of his guilt by any means!
He has written me that he is not guilty and I believe him.
And to whom should he turn with the truth and for trust if not to me?
But there is He who sees all things and who knows.”
At the same time there was so much in the long stream of evidence, as well as Clyde’s first folly in Kansas City, that had caused her to wonder — and fear.
Why was he unable to explain that folder?
Why couldn’t he have gone to the girl’s aid when he could swim so well?