One of the Portuguese kept repeating: “Do you see any change for me? Do you see any change for me?”
I could not keep my mind on what the control was perpetrating in the name of Jacques. Like the veriest devotee among them I wished to get hold of Mattie again.
“Get Mattie back,” I whispered to the judge.
And immediately the masculine tones changed to the light fluttering voice that had been hers. “Five pines, five pines, five pines,” it repeated rapidly, like a telephone-operator.
“Mattie,” I demanded, no longer surprised at my own voice, “what is in that secret room?”
“Huh?” interrupted the sailor, grasping my hand harder.
I felt that every one in the circle was straining for the answer. The phrase “secret room” had won instant coöperation. We bent forward in abysmal darkness, listening through the silence, till even the sand blown down on the roof grated on our raw nerves. The phonograph had stopped playing. Then one word hung in the air like a floating feather:
“Murder!”
That was all. As if the circle had been cut with a sharp knife, every one dropped hands and pushed back from the others. Some one rushed over to the door and unbolted it, and the light struck in across the floor.
The horns lay in a disordered heap at the foot of the medium, who was slowly running his fingers through his kinky hair, as if coming back to life. The men stood up and breathed hard, without looking at one another.