four o'clock
She said good-bye , and went on wearily . It was a warm afternoon for October . Norah Linton and her father had come up to London by an early train , and , after much shopping , had lunched at a little French restaurant in Soho , where they ate queer dishes and talked exceedingly bad French to the pretty waitress . It was four o'clock when they found themselves at the door of a dingy building in Bloomsbury . `` Floor 3 , the Hunts ' flat , Daddy , '' said Norah , consulting a note-book . `` I suppose there is a lift . '' There was a lift , but it was out of order ; a grimy card , tucked into the lattice of the doorway , proclaimed the fact .