She sent for me early on Tuesday morning, and since the summons sounded an urgent one, I hastened there, expecting to find her in extremis .

The lady was in bed. So much did she concede to the etiquette of the situation. She gave me her bony hand, and indicated a chair drawn up to the bedside.

“Well, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “and what’s the matter with you?”

I spoke with that kind of spurious geniality which seems to be expected of general practitioners.

“I’m prostrated,” said Mrs. Ackroyd in a faint voice. “Absolutely prostrated. It’s the shock of poor Roger’s death. They say these things often aren’t felt at the time , you know. It’s the reaction afterwards.”