a quarter past
eleven
The night-breeze , blowing in from the fields , was too light to be audible . The watch-dog in the nurseryman 's garden hard by , was as quiet on this particular night as if he had actually barked himself dumb at last . Outside the house , as well as inside , the drowsy reign of old primeval Quiet was undisturbed by the innovating vagaries of the rebel , Noise . Undisturbed , till the clock in the hall pointed to a quarter past eleven . Then there came softly and slowly up the iron stairs that led from the back garden to the studio , a sound of footsteps . When these ceased , the door at the lower end of the room was opened gently from outside , and the black bulky figure of Mat appeared on the threshold , lowering out gloomily against a back-ground of starry sky . He stepped into the painting-room , and closed the door quietly behind him ; stood listening anxiously in the darkness for a moment or two ; then pulling from his pocket the wax taper and the matches which he had bought that afternoon , immediately provided himself with a light .