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.

“Here, now,” he shouted to Jackson, “you just let this feller and plantchette fight it out together!”

“What’s the matter with plantchette ?” said Jeff, before he said to his brother, “Hello, Jackson!” and to the Canuck, “Hello, Jombateeste!” He shook hands conventionally with them both, and then with the painter, whom he greeted with greater interest.  “Glad to see you here, Mr. Westover.  Did I take you by surprise?” he asked of the company at large.

“No, sir,” said Whitwell.  “Didn’t surprise us any, if you are a fortnight ahead of time,” he added, with a wink at the others.

“Well, I took a notion I wouldn’t wait for the cattle-ship, and I started back on a French boat.  Thought I’d try it.  They live well.  But I hoped I should astonish you a little, too.  I might as well waited.”

Whitwell laughed.  “We heard from you—­plantchette kept right round after you.”

“That so?” asked Jeff, carelessly.

“Fact.  Have a good voyage?” Whitwell had the air of putting a casual question.

“First-rate,” said Jeff.  “Plantchette say not?”

“No.  Only about the broken shaft.”

“Broken shaft?  We didn’t have any broken shaft.  Plantchette’s got mixed a little.  Got the wrong ship.”

After a moment of chop-fallenness, Whitwell said: 

“Then somebody’s been makin’ free with your name.  Curious how them devils cut up oftentimes.”

He explained, and Jeff laughed uproariously when he understood the whole case.  “Plantchette’s been havin’ fun with you.”

Whitwell gave himself time for reflection.  “No, sir, I don’t look at it that way.  I guess the wires got crossed some way.  If there’s such a thing as the spirits o’ the livin’ influencin’ plantchette, accordin’ to Mr. Westover’s say, here, I don’t see why it wa’n’t.  Jeff’s being so near that got control of her and made her sign his name to somebody else’s words.  It shows there’s something in it.”