one o'clock
`` Gate , '' I roared , `` gate , gate ! '' for the padlock was plain enough and a good stout chain about it . No one answered me for more than five minutes , I suppose , and no sooner did an old man appear , than I saw the stranger with his bushy black beard , his lordship 's double , running down the drive for all he was worth , and bawling to the gate-keeper not to open . A critical moment this , upon my word , and one to bring a man 's heart into his mouth -- the doddering old man tottering to the gate ; the stranger running like a prize-winner ; Lord Crossborough himself , doubled up in the bottom of the landaulette , and me sitting there with my foot on the clutch , my hand on the throttle , and my pulse going like one o'clock . Should we do it or should we not ? Would it be shut or open ? The question answered itself a moment later , when the lodge-keeper , not seeing the other fellow , half opened the iron gates and let my bonnet in between them .