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Page 101
She very nearly laughed. "This is New York," she said, "not
Arizona. And besides there was no express-car. This thing was
done by somebody who wanted the effect of a wreck, and nothing
else, and it was done by some one who knew about railroads.
"Now, what class of persons who know about railroads could be
moved by that motive?"
She was driving straight now at the boy I stood to cover. At
another step she would name the class. Discharged workmen would
know about railroads; they would be interested to show how less
efficient the road was without them; and a desperate one might
plan such a wreck as a demonstration. If so, he would wish only
the effect of the wreck, and not loss of life. Marion was going
dead ahead on the right line, in another moment she would
remember the man we passed, and the "black band" letters. I made
a final desperate effort to divert her.
"Come along!" I called, "the first thing to do now is to talk
with Clinton Howard. The nearest telephone will be at Crewe's
house on the hill."
And it won.
"Lisa!" she cried, "you're right I We must tell him at once."
We hurried down the track to the motor-car. I had gained a
little time. But how could I keep my promise. And the next
moment the problem became more difficult. The track boss came up
with a short iron bar that his men had found in the weeds along
the right of way.
"There's the claw-bar, that the devil done it with," he said.
"You can tell it's just been handled by the way the rust's rubbed
off."
It was conclusive evidence. Everybody could see how the
workman's hands, as he labored with the claw-bar to draw the
spikes, had cleaned off the rust.
I hurried the motor away. We raced up the long winding road to
Crewe's country-house, sitting like a feudal castle on the
summit. And I wondered, at every moment, how I could keep my
promise. The boy was a criminal, deserving to be hanged, no
doubt, but the naked mother's heart that had dabbed against my
fingers overwhelmed me.
Almost in a flash, I thought, we were in the grounds and before
Crewe's house. Then I noticed lights and a confusion of voices.
No one came to meet us. And we got out of the motor and went in
through the open door. We found a group of excited servants. An
old butler began to stammer to Marion.
"It was his heart, Miss . . . the doctor warned the attendants.
But he got away to-night. It was overexertion, Miss. He fell
just now as the attendants brought him in." And he flung open
the library door.
On a leather couch illumined by the brilliant light, Crewe lay;
his massive relentless face with the great bowed nose, like the
iron cast of what Marion had called a Nietzsche creature,
motionless in death; his arms straight beside him with the great
gloved hands open.
And all at once, at the sight, with a heavenly inspiration, I
kept my promise.
"Look!" I cried. "Oh, everybody, how the palms of his gloves are
covered with rust!"
XIII. The Pumpkin Coach
The story of the American Ambassadress was not the only one
related on this night.
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