Quarter to ten
_ Ting-tang ; ting-tang ; ting-tang _ . Malcolm Stratton , F.Z.S. , naturalist , a handsome , dark-complexioned man of eight-and-twenty , started and flushed like a girl as he hurriedly thrust the photograph he had been apostrophising into his breast pocket , and ran to the deep , dingy window of his chambers to look at the clock over the old hall of Bencher 's Inn , E.C. . It was an unnecessary piece of business , for there was a black marble clock on the old carved oak chimney-piece nestling among Grinling Gibbons ' wooden flowers and pippins , and he had been dragging his watch from his pocket every ten minutes since he had risen at seven , taken his bath , and dressed ; but he had forgotten the hour the next minute , and gone on making his preparations , haunted by the great dread lest he should be too late . `` Quarter to ten yet , '' he muttered . `` How slowly the time goes ! '' As he spoke he sniffed slightly and smiled , for a peculiar aromatic incense-like odour had crept into the room through the chinks in a door . He stepped back to where a new-looking portmanteau lay upon the Turkey carpet , and stood contemplating it for a few moments .