Mrs. Rowlandson flushed.
“The only Spiritualist I ever knew,” she stammered, “was—you know, dear, whom I mean——”
Mr. Rowlandson raised his eyebrows and stared at her in astonishment.
“I don’t,” he said. “Who?”
“Ernest Dekon!”
“Dekon!” Mr. Rowlandson ejaculated. “Dekon! Why, of course, I might have guessed Spiritualism was in his line. Some years ago, Mr. O’Donnell,” he went on, turning to me, “my wife met this Mr. Dekon at a ball given by a mutual friend, and from that time, up to his death, he persecuted her with his undesirable attentions. I never knew anyone so persistent.”
“He resented your marriage, of course,” I remarked.
“Resented it!” Mr. Rowlandson responded; “I should rather think he did, though to everyone’s surprise he came to it. Ye Gods! I shall never forget the expression on his face, as we caught sight of him in the vestibule of the church. Talk about Satan! Satan never looked half as evil.”
“And Mr. Dekon was a Spiritualist!” I said.
“He was very keen on séances,” Mrs. Rowlandson interposed. “Most keen, and was at one time always trying to persuade me to go to one with him.”