eight o'clock
The hair , if just a trifle too long , covered the scar on his head now , the wound no longer required a bandage , and Larry the Bat , for the time being at least , had disappeared . Across the foot of the bed , neatly folded , lay his dress coat and overcoat , but little creased for all that they had lain in that hiding-place under the flooring since the night when , hurrying from the club , he had placed them there to assume instead the tatters of Larry the Bat . It was Jimmie Dale in his own person again who stood there now in Larry the Bat 's disreputable den , an incongruous figure enough against the background of his miserable surroundings , in perfect-fitting shoes and trousers , the broad expanse of spotless white shirt bosom glistening even in the poverty-stricken flare from the single , sputtering gas jet . Jimmie Dale took the watch from his pocket that had not been wound for many days , wound it mechanically , set it by guesswork -- it was not far from eight o'clock -- and replaced it in his pocket . Carefully then , one at a time , he examined his fingers , long , slim , sensitive , tapering fingers , magical masters of safes and locks and vaults of the most intricate and modern mechanism -- no single trace of grime remained , they were metamorphosed hands from the filthy paws of Larry the Bat . He nodded in satisfaction ; and picked up the mirror for a final inspection of himself , that , this time , did not miss a single line in his face or neck . Again Jimmie Dale nodded .