 In cases of accidental death, the greatest tragedy always lies in the fact that the disaster might have been avoided. But there is on record the story of one survivor who could, with justification, disclaim responsibility. For after all, how can you prevent a tragedy which has been willed by a mysterious and powerful and invisible force? It was an ideal day for an outing. That May 3rd, 1933. The skies were serene and cloudless. And if Nemesis, the goddess of punishment and destruction, rode the gentle Zephyrs, she did not make her presence known. Certainly not to young William Perence and Beatrice Villis of Blinham Road, Clapham, London. They had set out early in the morning for their favorite spot in the country, beyond Tundridge Wells. And as their open roads to skimmed smoothly over the highway, they were blithely unaware of the danger that hovered upon them. Oh, Bill, you're crazy. You suggested this pic together. But what's the matter with picnics? Nobody enjoys them, but the insects. Oh, oh. What's the matter, Bill? Didn't you feel that? You mean the way the cars were? Well, I thought you did it. I thought you were trying to avoid a bump in the road. I didn't turn the wheel at all. We're going straight now. Yes. Oh, well. I suppose it was nothing serious. I pity anyone. Oh, Bill, look out! Oh, Bill, we almost went over into that covert. I can't understand it. I don't know what caused it. Well, there must be something the matter with the car. But it wasn't like that at all. It was almost as if... Well, as if somebody had pushed us. William Perence climbed out of the driver's seat to examine the car. When he returned to his place behind the wheel, there was a look of fear and perplexity in his eyes. There's nothing wrong with the car, B. Then what? I haven't any idea what. I tell you, we were pushed across that road. Oh, Bill, that's absurd. Now come on, let's get going. Without a word, William Perence stepped on the starter, meshed the gears, and the car edged forward. He drove slowly cautiously, his eyes pinned on the road ahead, his hands tense around the wheel. For almost five minutes, they crept along the highway. And then suddenly... Bill, we're on the wrong side of the road again. Turn your wheels, Bill. I am turning them. It doesn't do any good. Well, stop the car. We're almost at the edge. Bill, stop it. It won't stop me. The brakes all the way down to the floor. But you've got to stop it. We're going on the road, Bill. A few seconds later, when William Perence recovered consciousness, the car lay overturned at the foot of an embankment. And pinned beneath it was the lifeless body of Beatrice Billis. Perhaps in that terrible moment, Perence blamed himself for her death. But it was not he who had killed his companion. For a thorough investigation failed to disclose any defect in either the brakes or the steering mechanism. It was a mysterious and invisible force that was in control of his car at the instant it left the road. A force incredible but true.