eleven o'clock
The table held his books , his pen and ink and paper . There was a charpoy in one corner , and under the charpoy a locked box . There were no windows , and the narrow door opened into a passage that ran abruptly into a wall , a few feet farther on . So nobody saw Sunni when he carried his chirag , his little chimneyless , smoking tin lamp , into his room , and set it in a niche on the wall , took off his shoes , and threw himself down on his charpoy at eleven o'clock that night . For a long time he had been listening to the bul-buls , the nightingales , in the garden , and thinking of this moment . Now it had come , and Sunni quivered and throbbed all over with excitement . He lay very still , though , on the watch for footsteps , whispers , breathings in the passage .