five o'clock
Neneford Manor was an ancient , rambling old Queen Anne place , about nine miles from Peterborough on the high road to Leicester . Standing in the midst of the richest grass country in England , with its grounds sloping to the brimming river that wound through meadows which in May were a blaze of golden buttercups , it was a typical English home , with quaint old gables , high chimney stacks and old-world garden with yew hedges trimmed fantastically as in the days of wigs and patches . I had snatched a week-end several times to be old Mrs. Mivart 's guest ; therefore I knew the picturesque old place well , and had been entranced by its many charms . Soon after five o'clock that afternoon I descended from the train at the roadside station , and , mounting into the dog-cart , was driven across the hill to the Manor . In the hall the sweet-faced , silver-haired old lady , in her neat black and white cap greeted me , holding both my hands and pressing them for a moment , apparently unable to utter a word . I had expected to find her unwell ; but , on the contrary , she seemed quite as active as usual , notwithstanding the senile decay which I knew had already laid its hand heavily upon her . `` You are so good to come to me , Doctor .