midnight
`` It ai n't eight o'clock , yet , '' said the landlord to his wife , `` but a feller with nerves is best asleep . An ' when he 's asleep he wo n't waste our kerosene . '' No , Mr. Sinclair did n't waste the Hopper kerosene . He had a little pocket arrangement which supplied him with light when , an hour before midnight , he silently rose , dressed himself and prepared to leave the hotel . He was not attired in what Mary Ann called his `` glad rags '' now , but in a dark gray suit of homespun that was nearly the color of the night . The blond wig was carefully locked in a suit case , a small black cap was drawn over his eyes , and thus -- completely transformed -- Mr. Hopper 's guest had no difficulty in gaining the street without a particle of noise betraying him to the family of his host . He went to the postoffice , pried open a window , unlocked the mail bag that was ready for Jim Bennett to carry to the morning train at Chargrove and from it abstracted a number of letters which he unsealed and read with great care .