“Possible,” said Marion, “but not likely. Not to be expected, not in line with the preponderance of common experience; therefore, not to be passed. We have got to stop here and try to find out why this track spread under a slow train.”
“But we see it spread, Miss Warfield,” said the trackman with a conclusive gesture.
“True,” replied Marion, “we see that it did spread, under this condition, but why?”
The old woman sitting beside the track seemed to realize what was under way; for she rose and came over to where I stood. “Contessa,” she whispered, in those quaint, old world words, “do not reveal, what I have tol'. I pray you!”
And she followed me across the few steps to where the others stood.
I did not answer. I stood like one in some Hellenic drama, between two tragic figures. The love of woman lay in the solution of this problem—in the beginning and at the end of life.
Marion and the big track boss continued with this woman looking on.
I feared to speak or move; the thing was like a sort of trap, set with ghastly cunning, by some evil Fate. The ruin of a woman it would have. And perhaps on the vast level plain where it evilly dwelt, through its hard all-seeing eyes, the ruin and the sorrow either way would be precisely equal. How could I, then, lay a finger on the scale.
“Now,” said Marion, “when the engine reached this point on the track, one of the rails gave way first.”
The big workman looked steadily at her.