ten o'clock
_ Mr. Henry Denvil arose at ten o'clock on the morning of the 24th of November . His head ached ; his recollections of the previous evening were confused , further than a conviction that he had partaken of a champagne supper at the hotel , and played cards for money afterward with Jacques Robin and his wife . A man must occupy his evenings in some way . The habits of earlier life were still sufficiently strong to render him ashamed of having slept until ten o'clock . He drank his coffee hastily , pressed his slouch hat down over his brow , and did not glance at the hotel as he walked along the village street to the foundry . Eyes were watching him from a window of that same hotel , however -- keen eyes , given to studying the world for their own ends , and which now observed the figure and gait of Henry Denvil as he passed with a certain speculative interest . These eyes belonged to a woman , plain , no longer young , her sole attractions a soft voice and pleasing manner ; and a small , meagre man , wiry as a grasshopper , with gray hair , a yellow skin , large nose , and a peevish mouth .