nearly midnight
I presume I should go to bed ; but I know I can not sleep . To-morrow is to be , beyond all question , a red-letter day in the matter of the captain 's murder . And once again , against my will , I am down to play a leading part . The symphony of this great , gray , sad city is a mere hum in the distance now , for it is nearly midnight . I shall mail this letter to you -- post it , I should say , since I am in London -- and then I shall wait in my dim rooms for the dawn . And as I wait I shall be thinking not always of the captain , or his brother , or Hughes , or Limehouse and Enwright , but often -- oh , very often -- of you . In my last letter I scoffed at the idea of a great war .