Midnight
I may have consciously reasoned that the best way to forget the present was in the revival of memories . Or I may have been driven by a mere homing instinct . Anyhow , it was in the direction of my old College that I went . Midnight was tolling as I floated in through the shut grim gate at which I had so often stood knocking for admission . The man who now occupied my room had sported his oak -- my oak . I read the name on the visiting-card attached thereto -- E. J. Craddock -- and went in . E. J. Craddock , interloper , was sitting at my table , with elbows squared and head on one side , in the act of literary composition .