It was but a few months before the grieving widow determined that she must have a few words with her departed husband. The man had been stricken late one evening at the restaurant where he worked as a waiter, and she had no opportunity to say a few final words.
Seeking professional aid, she was directed to Madam Olga, Queen of Gypsies, who agreed to contact the dead man. The old gypsy seated the widow in her parlor at a small round table. The room was suitably bedecked for the occasion with the somber trappings and subdued lighting one would expect.
The sťance commenced and almost immediately the widow was certain she could make out the image of the dead man, standing austerely in a corner, dressed in his waiter's attire.
"Come closer," she cried, "I must speak with you!"
A hoarse voice from the corner wailed,
"I can't. It's not my table ..."