"That was Clarke, of course."
"Of course. Then imagine the light turned down, and the usual floating guitar—in the dark, of course—and rappings and whispers and the touch of hands—all in the dark. Then imagine—this will make you laugh—some kind of horn or megaphone of tin, that rambled around invisibly, distributing voices of loved ones here and there like sweetmeats out of a cornucopia—"
"You mean the spirits spoke through that thing?"
"That's what they all believed."
"But you don't think the girl—"
"Who else? Some of the voices were women's and one or two were children's. Clarke couldn't do the children's voices."
"I can't believe it of her! Clarke must have done them. He's capable of anything, but I don't, I won't believe such baseness of that girl."
"It hurts me to admit it, Kate, but I am forced to believe that she not only sang through that horn to-night, but that she lied to me. She told me once that she had no voice, and yet 'by request' she sang into that horn, and very sweetly, too, the very song to which she played an accompaniment when Clarke and I met for the first time. The effrontery of it was confounding."
"Maybe there was a confederate."
"That doesn't sweeten the mess very much."