It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. "As long as you please, Sir," answered the matron, dropping a curtsey. The general did what he might to hush it up, and paid handsomely to manage it, I daresay. He stopped, panting hard, slamming his cane to the floor to make use of its much-needed support. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. In the north they called her Manitou, in the south, Pabothkew.
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