midnight
Lord Grenville , moreover , had a most perfect cook -- some wags asserted that he was a scion of the old French _ noblesse _ , who , having lost his fortune , had come to seek it in the _ cuisine _ of the Foreign Office . Marguerite Blakeney was in her most brilliant mood , and surely not a soul in that crowded supper-room had even an inkling of the terrible struggle which was raging within her heart . The clock was ticking so mercilessly on . It was long past midnight , and even the Prince of Wales was thinking of leaving the supper-table . Within the next half-hour the destinies of two brave men would be pitted against one another -- the dearly-beloved brother and he , the unknown hero . Marguerite had not even tried to see Chauvelin during this last hour ; she knew that his keen , fox-like eyes would terrify her at once , and incline the balance of her decision towards Armand . Whilst she did not see him , there still lingered in her heart of hearts a vague , undefined hope that `` something '' would occur , something big , enormous , epoch-making , which would shift from her young , weak shoulders this terrible burden of responsibility , of having to choose between two such cruel alternatives .