I had never, therefore, had the opportunity of pursuing spiritualism on my own account; and until the day broke I lay awake, congratulating myself on the good luck that had thrown me, cheek by jowl, with a party of ready-made ghosts, whom a very little encouragement would, I trusted, induce to pay me a visit in my own apartments. All the next day I wandered through the streets of Norwich and in the country surrounding them, speculating--not on the whereabouts of Julian Cockleboat, nor “The Origin of Dreams”--but how I should persuade my landlady to help me unravel the mysterious occurrence of the night before. At last I bethought me that “honesty is the best policy” after all, and decided that I would make a clean breast of my suspicions and desires. If Mrs. Bizzey were a sensible woman, she would prove only too ready to aid me in ridding her apartments of visitors that must injure their reputation; and, at all events, I could but try her. So I opened the subject on the very first opportunity. The woman was clearing away my tea-things the same evening, when she remarked that I had not eaten well. “I am afraid you sit up too much at night, sir, to make a good appetite.” “Other people seem to sit up in this house at night as well as myself, Mrs. Bizzey,” I replied, significantly. “I don’t understand you,” she said, colouring. “Why, do you mean to say you never hear noises;--that you were not disturbed last night, for instance, by the sound of groans and voices, and of some one falling about in the upper rooms?” “Oh, sir, you don’t mean to tell me as you’ve heard them already!” exclaimed Mrs. Bizzey, clasping her hand and letting a teacup fall in her agitation. “If you go too, you’ll be the third gentleman that has left within a fortnight on that account; and if a stop ain’t put to it, the house will get such a name that nobody will put a foot inside the door for love or money.” “But I don’t mean to go, Mrs. Bizzey; on the contrary, I should be very sorry to go; and if you and your husband will consent to help me, I will do my best to stop the noises altogether,” for the idea of forming a little circle with these worthy people had suddenly flashed into my mind. “How can me and my good man help you, sir?” “Is Mr. Bizzey at home? If so, go downstairs and fetch him up here, and I will explain what I mean to you both at the same time.” She left the room at once, and in a few minutes returned with a dapper-looking little old fellow, in knee-breeches and a red plush waistcoat, who pulled his forelock to me on entering. “This is Mr. Bizzey, sir, and I’ve been telling him all you say as we came up the stairs.” I leant back in my chair, folded my hands, and looked important. “I suppose you must have heard the science of spiritualism mentioned?” I commenced, grandly. “The science of _what_, sir?” inquired Mr. Bizzey, with a puzzled air. “Of spiritualism--_i.e._, the power of converse or communication with disembodied spirits.”