eleven o'clock
It was only Will Cummings , passing the time of day , but when Tom turned from the window after answering him , Crailey , his poem , and his flask were gone . That evening Vanrevel sat in the dusty office , driving himself to his work with a sharp goad , for there was a face that came between him and all else in the world , and a voice that sounded always in his ears . But the work was done before he rose from his chair , though he showed a haggard visage as he bent above his candles to blow them out . It was eleven o'clock ; Crailey had not come back , and Tom knew that his light-hearted friend would not return for many hours ; and so , having no mind to read , and no belief that he could if he tried , he went out to walk the streets . He went down to the river first , and stood for a little while gazing at the ruins of the two warehouses , and that was like a man with a headache beating his skull against a wall . As he stood on the blackened wharf , he saw how the charred beams rose above him against the sky like a gallows , and it seemed to him that nothing could have been a better symbol , for here he had hanged his self-respect . `` Reproach her ! ''