"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?"