five minutes past midnight
He knew it by its feel and its heft and its size ; besides the tip of one finger , sliding over its smooth rimless surface , had found in the centre of it the depression of the worn hole , and the sensitive nerves had flashed the news to his brain . He slid it into a trousers pocket and passed the coat back to the girl ; and almost before she had restored it to its appointed hook , Trencher had regained the shelter of the wash room and was repossessing himself of the slouch hat and the long black overcoat . Back once more to the street he made the journey safely , nothing happening on the way out into the November night to alarm him . The winking , blinking electrically jewelled clock in the sign up the street told him it was just five minutes past midnight . He headed north , but for a few rods only . At Fortieth Street he turned west for a short block and at Seventh Avenue he hailed a south-bound trolley car . But before boarding the car he cast a quick backward scrutiny along the route he had come .