about half past eight
in summer
But his poetry comes in abruptly and leads him right . '' Whether this was true of Rupert as a whole , or no , it was certainly curiously supported by one story about him which I think worth telling . We were walking along a lonely terrace in Brompton together . The street was full of that bright blue twilight which comes about half past eight in summer , and which seems for the moment to be not so much a coming of darkness as the turning on of a new azure illuminator , as if the earth were lit suddenly by a sapphire sun . In the cool blue the lemon tint of the lamps had already begun to flame , and as Rupert and I passed them , Rupert talking excitedly , one after another the pale sparks sprang out of the dusk . Rupert was talking excitedly because he was trying to prove to me the nine hundred and ninety-ninth of his amateur detective theories . He would go about London , with this mad logic in his brain , seeing a conspiracy in a cab accident , and a special providence in a falling fusee .