the
hour of seven
So still was the room that Mrs. Irvin could hear the faint crackling sound made by the burning charcoal in the brass vessel near her . Wisps of blue-grey smoke arose through the perforated lid and she began to watch them fascinatedly , so lithe they seemed , like wraiths of serpents creeping up the green draperies . So she was seated , her foot still restlessly tapping , but her gaze arrested by the hypnotic movements of the smoke , when at last a sound from the outer world , penetrated to the room . A church clock struck the hour of seven , its clangor intruding upon the silence only as a muffled boom . Almost coincident with the last stroke came the sweeter note of a silver gong from somewhere close at hand . Mrs. Irvin started , and her eyes turned instantly in the direction of the greenly draped wall before her . Her pupils had grown suddenly dilated , and she clenched her hands tightly .