“Those dreadful bills. And some I didn’t like to show Roger at all. They were things a man wouldn’t understand. He would have said the things weren’t necessary. And of course they mounted up, you know, and they kept coming in⁠—”

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 was Colin MacDonald. Quite a coincidence.”

“Hardly that,” I said drily. “They are usually Scotch gentlemen, but I suspect a Semitic strain in their ancestry.”