There was no reply and the whispering ceased. Almost instantly the horn seemed grasped by a firm and masterful hand, and the rollicking voice of a man broke startlingly from the darkness in words so clear, so resonant, that all could hear them.
"Hello, folks. Is this a Quaker meeting?"
"Who are you?" asked Morton.
"Can't you guess?"
Kate gasped. "Why, it's Uncle Ben Roberts!"
The voice chuckled. "Right the first time. It's old 'Loggy'—true bill. How are you all?"
Kate could hardly speak, so great was her fear and joy. "Morton Serviss, what do you think now? Ask him—"
The voice from the trumpet interposed. "Don't ask me a word about conditions over here—it's no use. I can't tell you a thing."
"Why not?" asked Morton.
"Well, how would you describe a Connecticut winter to a Hottentot? Not that you're a Hottentot"—the voice broke into an oily chuckle—"or that I'm in a cold climate." The chuckle was renewed. "I'm very comfortable, thank you." Here the invisible one grew tender. "My boy, your mother is here and wants to speak to you but can't do so. She asked me to manifest for her. She says to trust this girl and to carry a message of love to Henry. I brought one of her colonial wineglasses with me—as a sign of her presence and as a test of the power we have of passing through matter."