“Do you think that I don’t know why you wish to get this phonograph back into your own possession?”
The man seemed to think the question an unnecessary one.
“It’s my living; don’t I tell you so?”
Pugh rested both his hands upon the phonograph; he leaned over it towards the stranger; he addressed him in a sepulchral whisper:—
“Yes, you do tell me that; but you do not tell me that if you don’t get it back into your possession it may be your death.”
The man laughed uneasily.
“If it isn’t my living, I shouldn’t be surprised if it was my death.”
“You dare to tell me that, and to laugh at it?” The man seemed to be startled by Pugh’s vehemence. “Do you think that this phonograph has not confided to me its secret?”
The man stared at Pugh, as if in amaze.
“Eh?”
“Your wife has spoken to me
