twenty minutes past ten
You have heard of Hercules Prang ? '' These were the last words I heard distinctly from the lips of Napoleon B. Burress ; nor were they answered , even by the brief `` Never '' which might have proclaimed my ignorance of the very existence of that demi-god of charlatanry , who , for the benefit of suffering mankind , had condescended to compel his genius into the shape of a `` revivifying balsam . '' I had , with the aid of the house-maid , divested myself of my wet overshoes and wrappings before the advent of my companion , and had already ensconced myself in a deep Spanish chair , that stood invitingly and with extended arms in one corner of the fireplace , when he advanced to place himself on the rug for a general roasting . It was precisely twenty minutes past ten , Mr. Burress told me later , when he detected , by stealing on tiptoe to my chair , and bending above me , that I was sound asleep , and the mantel clock was on the stroke of eleven when I awoke . In one corner of the room sat a stern statue of Silence , in the shape of N.B. Burress , watching my repose , and from the adjoining office came the murmur of voices that proved that the long interview between Dr. Pemberton and his patient was still in progress . At this moment , one of the walnut-leaves of the small folding-door , that formed a communication between the study and office of the good physician , swung itself gently on its noiseless hinges , into the position distinguished in description as `` slightly ajar , '' and thus remained fixed , after a fashion that spiritual mediums might have been able to account for , on supernatural principles . The low murmur of voices then readily resolved itself into shaped words and sentences , and , but for my deep languor , and the delightful sense of security that possessed me , I should have risen and closed the obliging door , to shut out unintentional communications .