twenty minutes past eight
He snapped an elastic band round his papers and strode off without shaking hands . On the appointed Sunday , Father Murchison preached to a densely crowded congregation at St. Saviour 's . The subject of his sermon was sympathy , and the comparative uselessness of man in the world unless he can learn to love his neighbour as himself . The sermon was rather long , and when the preacher , in his flowing , black cloak , and his hard , round hat , with a straight brim over which hung the ends of a black cord , made his way towards the Professor 's house , the hands of the illuminated clock disc at the Marble Arch pointed to twenty minutes past eight . The Father hurried on , pushing his way through the crowd of standing soldiers , chattering women and giggling street boys in their Sunday best . It was a warm April night , and , when he reached number 100 , Hyde Park Place , he found the Professor bareheaded on his doorstep , gazing out towards the Park railings , and enjoying the soft , moist air , in front of his lighted passage . `` Ha , a long sermon ! ''