She looked at me appealingly, as though asking me to condole with her on this

striking peculiarity.

 

“It’s a habit they have,” I agreed.

 

“And the tone altered—became quite abusive. I assure you, doctor, I was becoming

a nervous wreck. I couldn’t sleep at nights. And a dreadful fluttering round the

heart. And then I got a letter from a Scotch gentleman—as a matter of fact there

were two letters—both Scotch gentlemen. Mr. Bruce MacPherson was one, and the

other were Colin MacDonald. Quite a coincidence.”

 

“Hardly that,” I said dryly. “They are usually Scotch gentlemen, but I suspect a

Semitic strain in their ancestry.”

 

“Ten pounds to ten thousand on note of hand alone,” murmured Mrs.

 

Ackroyd reminiscently. “I wrote to one of them, but it seemed there were

difficulties.”

 

She paused.

 

I gathered that we were just coming to delicate ground. I have never known any

one more difficult to bring to the point.