woman." She turned to Shirley. "How an open car does blow one around,
my dear!"

"Yes, indeed," said Shirley innocently.

"Heard the McKinnon people had a man killed up in their woods
yesterday, Colonel," Poundstone remarked, hoping against hope to
divert the conversation.

"Yes. The fellow's own fault," Pennington replied. "He was one of
those employees who held to the opinion that every man is the captain
of his own soul and the sole proprietor of his own body--hence that
it behooved him to look after both, in view of the high cost of
safety-appliances. He was warned that the logging-cable was weak at
that old splice and liable to pull out of the becket--and sure enough
it did. The free end of the cable snapped back like a whip, and--"

"I hold to the opinion," Mrs. Poundstone interrupted, "that if one
wishes for a thing hard enough and just keeps on wishing, one is
bound to get it."

"My dear," said Mr. Poundstone impressively, "if you would only
confine yourself to wishing, I assure you your chances for success
would be infinitely brighter."

There was no mistaking this rebuke; even two cocktails were powerless
to render Mrs. Poundstone oblivious to it. Shirley and her uncle saw
the Mayor's lady flush slightly; they caught the glint of murder in
His Honour's eye; and the keen intelligence of each warned them that
closed cars should be a closed topic of conversation with the