“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 anyone more difficult to bring to the point.

“You see,” murmured Mrs. Ackroyd, “it’s all a question of expectations, isn’t it? Testamentary expectations. And though, of course, I expected that Roger would provide for me, I didn’t know . I thought that if only I could glance over a copy of his will⁠—not in any sense of vulgar prying⁠—but just so that I could make my own arrangements.”