midnight
The world was very still ... . And so , wandering foot-loose in a wilderness of ways , turning aimlessly , now right , now left , he found himself in a street he knew , yet seemed not to know : a silent , black street one brief block in length , walled with dead and lightless dwellings , haunted by his errant memory ; a street whose atmosphere was heavy with impalpable essence of desuetude ; in two words , Frognall Street . Kirkwood identified it with a start and a guilty tremor . He stopped stock-still , in an unreasoning state of semi-panic , arrested by a silly impulse to turn and fly ; as if the bobby , whom he descried approaching him with measured stride , pausing now and again to try a door or flash his bull 's - eye down an area , were to be expected to identify the man responsible for that damnable racket raised ere midnight in vacant Number 9 ! Oddly enough , the shock of recognition brought him to his senses , -- temporarily . He was even able to indulge himself in a quiet , sobering grin at his own folly . He passed the policeman with a nod and a cool word in response to the man 's good-natured , `` Good-night , sir . ''