Westover remained in a shameful minority.  He said, meekly:  “It suggests a beautiful hope.”

Jackson brought his chair-legs down again, and put his hand on the planchette.

“Feel that tinglin’?” asked.  Whitwell, and Jackson made yes with silent lips.  “After he’s been workin’ the plantchette for a spell, and then leaves off, and she wants to say something more,” Whitwell explained to Westover, “he seems to feel a kind of tinglin’ in his arm, as if it was asleep, and then he’s got to tackle her again.  Writin’ steady enough now, Jackson!” he cried, joyously.  “Let’s see.”  He leaned over and read, “Thomas Jefferson—­” The planchette stopped, “My, I didn’t go to do that,” said Whitwell, apologetically.  “You much acquainted with Jefferson’s writin’s?” he asked of Westover.

The painter had to own his ignorance of all except the diction that the government is best which governs least; but he was not in a position to deny that Jefferson had ever said anything about a broken shaft.

“It may have come to him on the other side,” said Whitwell.

“Perhaps,” Westover assented.

The planchette began to stir itself again.  “She’s goin’ ahead!” cried Whitwell.  He leaned over the table so as to get every letter as it was formed.  “D—­Yes!  Death.  Death is the Broken Shaft.  Go on!” After a moment of faltering the planchette formed another letter.  It was a U, and it was followed by an R, and so on, till Durgin had been spelled.  “Thunder!” cried Whitwell.  “If anything’s happened to Jeff!”

Jackson lifted his hand from the planchette.

“Oh, go on, Jackson!” Whitwell entreated.  “Don’t leave it so!”

“I can’t seem to go on,” Jackson whispered, and Westover could not resist the fear that suddenly rose among them.  But he made the first struggle against it.  “This is nonsense.  Or, if there’s any sense in it, it means that Jeff’s ship has broken her shaft and put back.”

Whitwell gave a loud laugh of relief.  “That’s so!  You’ve hit it, Mr.
Westover.”

Jackson said, quietly:  “He didn’t mean to start home till tomorrow.  And how could he send any message unless he was—­”

“Easily!” cried Westover.  “It’s simply an instance of mental impression-of telepathy, as they call it.”

“That’s so!” shouted Whitwell, with eager and instant conviction.

Westover could see that Jackson still doubted.  “If you believe that a disembodied spirit can communicate with you, why not an embodied spirit?  If anything has happened to your brother’s ship, his mind would be strongly on you at home, and why couldn’t it convey its thought to you?”

“Because he ha’n’t started yet,” said Jackson.

Westover wanted to laugh; but they all heard voices without, which seemed to be coming nearer, and he listened with the rest.  He made out Frank Whitwell’s voice, and his sister’s; and then another voice, louder and gayer, rose boisterously above them.  Whitwell flung the door open and plunged out into the night.  He came back, hauling Jeff Durgin in by the shoulder.