three in the afternoon
An hour later I sat beside my own chauffeur , as we drove through the steadily falling rain across Hampstead Heath , on our hundred-mile journey into Lincolnshire . We both knew every inch of the road , having been over it many times . As it was wet , police-traps were unlikely , so , having negotiated the narrow road as far as Hatfield , we began to `` let her out '' past Hitchin , and we buzzed on over the broad open road through Stilton village . We were hung up at the level-crossing at Wansford , but about half-past three in the afternoon we swept over the brow of the hill beneath the high wall of Burghley Park , and saw beneath us the roofs and many spires of quiet old Stamford . Ten minutes later we swung into the yard of the ancient George , and , alighting , entered the broad hall , with its splendid old oak staircase , in search of the manageress . She related a rather curious story . On the previous night , about eleven o'clock , there arrived by car two well-dressed gentlemen who , though English , conversed together in French .