twelve
o'clock
Mr. Holmes had indeed found no pocket-book . The discovery he made was far less welcome . An amethyst pin with sleeve-buttons to match , a piece of personal property that he highly valued , had disappeared from his dressing-case . There were three pairs of sleepless eyes in the doctor 's quarters when the sentries were shouting the call of `` Half-past twelve o'clock . '' Nellie Bayard , in her dainty little white room , was whispering over a tear-stained pillow her prayer for the safety of Randall McLean , who was riding post-haste down the swollen Platte . Dr. Bayard , too excited to go to bed , had thrown himself on a sofa and was plotting for the future and planning an alliance for his fair daughter that would mean power and position for himself . And Mr. Holmes was sitting with darkened face at his bedside , gazing blankly at the handkerchief he had picked up on the floor just in front of the bureau , a handkerchief embroidered in one corner with the letters R. McL .