“We can’t tell what made that rail give.”

“Of course, we can tell,” said Marion.  “It gave because it was weakened.”

“But what weakened it?” replied the man.  “You can’t tell that?  The rail’s sound.”

“There could be only two causes,” said Marion.  “It was either weakened by a natural agency or a human agency.”

The track boss made an annoyed gesture, like a practical person vexed with the refinements of a theorist.

“But how are you going to tell?”

“Now,” said Marion, “there is always a point as you follow a thing down, where the human design in it must appear, if there is a human design in it.  The human mind can falsify events within a limited area.  But if one keeps moving out, as from a center, he will find somewhere this point at which intelligence is no longer able to imitate the aspect of the result of natural forces . . .  I think we have reached it.”

She paused and drove her query at the track boss.

“The spikes on the outside of this rail held it in place, did they not?”

“Yes, Miss Warfield.”

“Did the impact of the engine force these spikes out of the ties?”

“Yes, Miss Warfield, it forced them out.”

“How do you know it forced them out?”

“Well, Miss Warfield,” said the man, pointing to the rail and the denuded cross-ties, don’t you see they’re out?”

“I see that they are out,” replied Marion, “but I do not yet see that they have been forced out.”

She moved a step closer to the track boss and her voice hardened.  “If these spikes were forced out by the impact of the engine, we ought to find torn spike holes inclining toward the end of the crossties. . . .  Look!”

The big practical workman suddenly realized what the girl meant.

He stooped over and began to flash his torch along the end of the ties.  We crowded against him.  Every one of the spike holes, for the entire length of the rail, was straight and clean.  The man seized one of the spikes and scrutinized it under his torch.

Then he stood up.  For a moment he did not speak.  He merely looked at Marion.  “It’s the holy truth!” he said.  “Somebody pulled these spikes with a clawbar.  That weakened the rail, and she bowed out when the engine struck her.”

Then he turned around, and shouted down the track to his crew.  “Hey, boys!  Spread out along the right of way and see if you can’t find a claw-bar.  The devils that do these tricks always throw away their tools.”

We stood together in a little tragic group.  The old peasant woman came over to where I stood, she walked with a dead, wooden step.  “Contessa,” she whispered, her old lips against my hand.  “You will save him?”

And suddenly with a wild human resentment, I longed to cut a way out of the trap of this Fatality; to force its ruthless decree into a sort of equity, if I could do it.