A short time later came the sensation which was to make the evening memorable in East Wellmouth's spiritualistic circles. Little Cherry Blossom called the name which many had expected and some, Lulie Hallett and Martha Phipps in particular, dreaded to hear.
“Jethro!” croaked the Blossom. “Jethro!”
Captain Hallett had been very quiet, particularly since the Florabel message was tangled in transit. Martha could see his shaggy head in silhouette against the dim light of the lamp and had noticed that that head scarcely moved. The light keeper seemed to be watching the medium very intently. Now he spoke.
“Yes?” he said, as if awakened from sleep. “Yes, here I am. What is it?”
“Jethro,” cried the control once more. “Jethro, somebodee come speakee to you.... Julia! Julia!”
Captain Jethro rose from his chair. The loved name had as always an instant effect. His heavy voice shook as he answered.
“Yes, yes, Julia,” he cried. “Here I am, Julia, waitin'—waitin'.”
It was pathetic, pitiful. One listener in that circle felt, in spite of his own misery, a pang of remorse and a little dread. After all, perhaps it would have been better to—
“Julia,” cried the light keeper. “Speak to me. I'm waitin'.”
The foghorn boomed just here, but even after the sound had subdued Little Cherry Blossom seemed to find it difficult to proceed. She—or the medium—choked, swallowed, and then said: