where the engine would go off onto the hard
road-bed of the highway into a level meadow. That means some one planned
this wreck to result in the least destruction of life and property
possible. Now, what class of persons could be after the effect of a
wreck, exclusive of a loss of life?"

I saw where her relentless deductions would presently lead. This was
precisely the result that a discharged foreign workman would seek in his
reprisal. This man would have hot blood, the southern Europe instinct
for revenge, but with such a mother, no mere lust to kill. I tried to
divert her from the fugitive.

"Train robbers," I said. "I wonder what was in the express-car?"

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 summ