Putney knocked on a small door that barred what appeared to be the entrance to a cave. The bolts were slowly withdrawn, and the door cautiously opened by a dark, sullen-looking man, who held a large bunch of keys in his hand.
A nod of recognition was exchanged between this personage and Putney, and the party was allowed to enter. The place into which they were introduced, bore a dismal, somber appearance.
Benches were scattered promiscuously about, while on the side walls were hung all sorts of martial implements. Not a single person, however, was visible: all was as quiet as the grave.
They were conducted along a large corridor dimly lighted a by a single lantern, whose feeble glare served only to heighten the gloominess of the situation.
Imogene was ushered into a brilliantly illuminated apartment, which, from all appearances, had, no doubt, been fitted up for her special reception.
She gazed about her with a half-bewildered air. The apartment was a magnificent one. There was a lavish display of grandeur, unsurpassed in many of our wealthiest drawing rooms.
From the ceiling hung a beautiful pendent, with variegated lights. The tapestried walls were grandiosely decorated in the richest and most artistic manner.
In the center of the room stood a table with vases, containing the choicest and rarest flowers, whose fragrant exhalations perfumed the whole apartment, serving to dispel the disagreeable odors emanating from the naturally damp walls.
The whole appearance of the place was strikingly at variance with the rest of the interior of this mysterious cavern. Recovering from her fit of abstraction into which she had fallen, Imogene rushed to the door of her prison, for this we must term it, to try and gain an egress, but it was securely barred.
She then turned her attention to the walls, lest perchance there might be some secret avenue to escape, but her hopes in that direction were speedily blasted.