a quarter past twelve
We rose to our feet together . `` Des , '' said my brother unsteadily , `` it seems rather like murder . '' `` No , Francis , '' I whispered back , `` it was justice ! '' The hands of the clock pointed to a quarter past twelve . Funny , how my eyes kept coming back to that clock ! There was a smell of warm gunpowder in the room , and the autumn sunshine , struggling feebly through the window , caught the blue edges of a little haze of smoke that hung lazily in the air by the desk in the corner . How close the room was !