CHAPTER VII
I
The hall was very ordinary within. Small in proportion to its great high ceiling, bleak in its white-washed walls and scantily covered floor, oppressive from its damp, stifling air and poor ventilation, it gave every indication of the state of disuse into which it had fallen. It was no more than an anteroom to the vestry of the church, though quite detached from it, yet one could almost feel through the stout south wall the impenetrable weight of darkness which had settled down within the great building beyond. The gloomy shadows had penetrated here, too, for although the antechamber contained a half dozen windows, they were shuttered and barred against every hue of twilight from the outside. The very atmosphere was indicative of the sinister nature of the business at hand.
To the front of the room a small platform stood surmounted by a table, surrounded by chairs. Several men occupied these, interested in a conversation, somewhat subdued in its tone and manner. The chairs, settees, and benches throughout the rest of the room, were being filled by the so-called volunteers, who entered and took their places with an air of wonder and indecision. Already two-thirds of the seats were taken, and every face turned and re-turned to the door at every footfall.
The small door to the side was, of course, barred; but, in response to the slightest knock, it was opened by an attendant, assigned for that purpose. Names were asked and the cards of admission were collected with a certain formality before the aspirant gained admittance. There was no introduction, no hurry, no excitement.
"What's your name?" the man at the door was heard to say to one who already had tapped for admittance.
"Cadwalader," was the reply. "James Cadwalader."
"Got your card?"
There was no response, only the production of a small white card.