eight o'clock
The house was shining , orderly , and redolent of soapsuds . During all this time she had been listening , listening , with her subconscious ear . Listening for something she had refused to name definitely in her mind , but listening , just the same ; waiting . And then , at eight o'clock , it came . The rattle of a key in the lock . The boom of the front door . Firm footsteps .