eleven o'clock
`` Well , '' said one , `` that 's fair , Tom Eccles . Here 's a handkerchief of mine ; I should know it again among a hundred others . '' `` Agreed ; I 'll leave it in the ruins . '' The wagers were fairly agreed upon ; several handkerchiefs were handed to Tom Eccles ; and at eleven o'clock he fairly started , through the murky darkness of the night , to the old ruin where Sir Francis Varney and Marchdale were holding their most unholy conference . It is one thing to talk and to accept wagers in the snug parlour of an inn , and another to go alone across a tract of country wrapped in the profound stillness of night to an ancient ruin which , in addition to the natural gloom which might well be supposed to surround it , has superadded associations which are anything but of a pleasant character . Tom Eccles , as he was named , was one of those individuals who act greatly from impulse . He was certainly not a coward , and , perhaps , really as free from superstition as most persons , but he was human , and consequently he had nerves , and he had likewise an imagination .