ave to prove
to me that he had nothing to do with the accident before I'd believe
him innocent.

I drove up the long hill overlooking the little bridge that had
suddenly assumed such a tragic significance in my life. It lies at the
bottom of the hill, about half-way between the city and the
country-club and on the loneliest stretch of the entire road. There
are no houses about; the city not having grown that far out and the
soil being entirely unsuitable for farming. In fact, there are only
one or two large trees near by, to break the desolate expanse, the
vegetation consisting mostly of thorny bushes springing from the rocky
soil. There have been several accidents at the bridge, for its
narrowness is deceiving and it is impossible for two autos to pass.
Motorists, going to the club, usually let their cars out on the long
hill and if another car, coming around the bend from the opposite
direction, reaches the bridge at the same time, only skilful driving
and good brakes can avoid a smash-up. The matter has been brought to
the attention of the authorities several times, but nothing has ever
been done, either to widen the bridge or to warn automobilists of the
danger.

As I reached the top of the hill, I saw that two automobiles had
stopped at the bottom, and, noticing that their lights blinked as
people passed back and forth in front of them, I was convinced that a
small crowd had gathered, probably out of curiosity. I slowed up as I
neared the spot and came to a stop at the side of the road. A
motorcycle cop walked up to my car.

"Inspector Robinson, sir?"

"No," I answered, "I am Warren Thompson, brother-in-law of Mr.
Felderson, who had the accident. How did it happen, do you know,
Sergeant?"

"It was the fault of the bridge again, sir. I've told the chief that
something ought to be done. This is the third accident in six months.
We've been trying to find the other car."

"What other car?" I asked.

"The car that made Mr. Felderson take the ditch," he explained. "He
must have been driving fast--he usually did; many's the time I've had
to warn him--and must have seen that the other car would meet him at
the bridge. He stopped too quick, skidded off the road and turned over
into the creek."

I shuddered as I pictured the scene. One of the automobiles turned
around and the lights picked out the upturned wheels of Jim's car. It
looked like some monster whose back had been broken. It was a large