Had either of the conspirators known of Pennington's plans to
entertain Mayor Poundstone at dinner on Thursday night, it is
probable they would not have cheered until those flat-cars were out
of the woods.




CHAPTER XXIX


Mayor Poundstone and his wife arrived at the Pennington home in
Redwood Boulevard at six forty-five Thursday evening. It was with a
profound feeling of relief that His Honour lifted the lady from their
modest little "flivver," for once inside the Pennington house, he
felt, he would be free from a peculiarly devilish brand of
persecution inaugurated by his wife about three months previously.
Mrs. Poundstone wanted a new automobile. And she had entered upon a
campaign of nagging and complaint; hoping to wear Poundstone's
resistance down to the point where he would be willing to barter his
hope of salvation in return for a guarantee of peace on earth.

"I feel like a perfect fool, calling upon these people in this filthy
little rattletrap," Mrs. Poundstone protested as they passed up the
cement walk toward the Pennington portal.

Mayor Poundstone paused. Had he been Medusa, the glance he bent upon
his spouse would have transformed her instantly into a not
particularly symmetrical statue of concrete. He had reached the
breaking-point.