"I 'ad quite a long talk with 'im," she went on. "Next time I'm goin' to arst 'im about the fifteen-and-six 'e borrowed, an' see if I can't get it back some'ow."
How the spirit would have considered this proposition is still uncertain, for Elizabeth never returned to the séances. She came to me one day in a state of violent agitation. "I see Ned Akroyd when I was out larst night," she began, "an' would you believe it, 'e's no more dead than I am, the wretch!"
"Well, aren't you glad?" I inquired.
"Glad, an' 'im with another girl an' pretendin' all the time not to see me! Men are 'ounds, that's what they are. An' I'll go to no more seeonces. They're a swindle."
"They were wrong about telling you to change your habitation too, weren't they?" I suggested insinuatingly.
"Course they were." Suddenly her face brightened. "I'll be able to 'ave the grammerfone back now," she said.
At the moment I am writing to the sounds of K-K-K-Katie, which, I fear, is giving me rather a syncopated style. But if the Editor is k-k-k-kind he will not banish me from P-P-P-Punch for this reason, as anyone can see my intentions are g-g-g-good.
Stay! K-K-K-Katie has ceased and I can think lucidly. An inspiration has come to me. Has not Elizabeth in her time wrought havoc among my crockery? The hour is ripe for me to retaliate.
To morrow at dawn I shall examine the gramophone records and—they will come in two in my hands.