the hour of seven
A tragedy , wrapped in mystery as impenetrable as a London fog , has befallen our quiet little house in Adelphi Terrace . In their basement room the Walters family , sleepless , overwhelmed , sit silent ; on the dark stairs outside my door I hear at intervals the tramp of men on unhappy missions -- But no ; I must go back to the very start of it all : Last night I had an early dinner at Simpson 's , in the Strand -- so early that I was practically alone in the restaurant . The letter I was about to write to you was uppermost in my mind and , having quickly dined , I hurried back to my rooms . I remember clearly that , as I stood in the street before our house fumbling for my keys , Big Ben on the Parliament Buildings struck the hour of seven . The chime of the great bell rang out in our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and friendly greeting . Gaining my study , I sat down at once to write . Over my head I could hear Captain Fraser-Freer moving about -- attiring himself , probably , for dinner .