ten
o'clock
Ryan rested his elbow upon its polished surface , and glared into the twilight . He was , as luck had it , in a terrible ill-humor . For he knew himself to-day for a man who had been physically flouted , a boss whose supremacy had been violently assailed , a king who felt his throne careen sickeningly beneath him . Last night , when four men whom he had never seen before , three of them masked , had borne him off on a long wild drive , and dropped him at ten o'clock in a lonely bit of country eight miles from the Academy Theatre , there had at least been action to give point to his choler . All but out of his mind with passion , he had besought them all , singly or quadruply , to descend from their carriage and meet him in combat , thirsting sorely to kill or be killed . But they had only laughed at him , silently , and galloped away , leaving him screaming out futile curses on the empty night air . Two hours later , when he had got back to Hunston , after an interminable nightmare of running over rough ground with unaccustomed limbs , and stumbling heavily to earth , and rising up to struggle again , he had learned to what uses his enemies had put that absence .