the hour
of nine
`` What , are you going already ? Maltravers , you look ill , your hand is feverish -- you should take advice . '' Maltravers smiled -- but the smile was not like his own -- shook his head , and strode rapidly away . Three of the London clocks , one after the other , had told the hour of nine , as a tall and commanding figure passed up the street towards Saxingham House . Five doors before you reach that mansion there is a crossing , and at this spot stood a young man , in whose face youth itself looked sapless and blasted . It was then March ; -- the third of March ; the weather was unusually severe and biting , even for that angry month . There had been snow in the morning , and it lay white and dreary in various ridges along the street .