"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.
"How do you know that, Miss Warfield?" he said.
"Because," replied Marion, "the marks of the wheels of the
locomotive on the ties are found, in the beginning, only on one
side of the track, showing that the rail on that side gave way,
when the engine struck it, and the other rail for some distance
bore the weight of the train.
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