twelve o'clock
But what was to be done with mere ` London ? ' Wylder was hidden from mortal sight , like a heaven-protected hero in the ` Iliad , ' and a cloud of invisibility girdled him . Like most rustic communities , Gylingden and its neighbourhood were early in bed . Few lights burned after half-past ten , and the whole vicinity was deep in its slumbers before twelve o'clock . At that dread hour , Captain Lake , about a mile on the Dollington , which was the old London road from Gylingden , was pacing backward and forward under the towering files of beech that overarch it at that point . The ` White House ' public , with a wide panel over its door , presenting , in tints subdued by time , a stage-coach and four horses in mid career , lay a few hundred yards nearer to Gylingden . Not a soul was stirring -- not a sound but those , sad and soothing , of nature was to be heard .