Orde looked around the room with some curiosity. It was long,
narrow, and very high. Tall windows admitted light at one end. The
illumination was, however, modified greatly by hangings of lace
covering all the windows, supplemented by heavy draperies drawn back
to either side. The embrasure was occupied by a small table, over
which seemed to flutter a beautiful marble Psyche. A rubber plant,
then as now the mark of the city and suburban dweller, sent aloft
its spare, shiny leaves alongside a closed square piano. The lack
of ornaments atop the latter bespoke the musician. Through the
filtered gloom of the demi-light Orde surveyed with interest the
excellent reproductions of the Old World masterpieces framed on the
walls--"Madonnas" by Raphael, Murillo, and Perugino, the "Mona
Lisa," and Botticelli's "Spring"--the three oil portraits occupying
the large spaces; the spindle-legged chairs and tables, the tea
service in the corner, the tall bronze lamp by the piano, the neat
little grate-hearth, with its mantel of marble; the ormolu clock,
all the decorous and decorated gentility which marked the
irreproachable correctness of whoever had furnished the apartment.
Dark and heavy hangings depended in front of a double door leading
into another room beyond. Equally dark and heavy hangings had
closed behind Orde as he entered. An absolute and shrouded
stillness seemed to settle down upon him. The ormolu clock ticked
steadily. Muffled sounds came at long intervals from behind the
portieres. Orde began to feel oppressed and subdued.

For quite three quarters of an hour he waited without hearing any
other indications of life than the muffled sounds just remarked
upon. Occasionally he shifted his position, but cautiously, as
though he feared to awaken some one. The three oil portraits stared
at him with all the reserved aloofness of their painted eyes. He