nine o'clock
Lord Hartfield walked across the Park to Great George Street , where Mr. Fitzpatrick had chambers of a semi-official character , on the first floor of a solemn-looking old house , spacious , gloomy without and within , walls sombre with the subdued colouring of decorations half a century old . The lighted windows of those first-floor rooms told Lord Hartfield that he was not too late . He rang the bell , which was answered with the briefest delay by a sleepy-looking clerk , who had been taking shorthand notes for Mr. Fitzpatrick 's great book upon ` Protection _ versus _ Free Trade . ' The clerk looked sleepy , but his employer had as brisk an air as if he were just beginning the day ; although he had been working without intermission since nine o'clock that evening , and had done a long day 's work before dinner . He was walking up and down the spacious unluxurious room , half office , half library , smoking a cigar . Upon a large table in the centre of the room stood two powerful reading lamps with green shades , illuminating a chaotic mass of books and pamphlets , heaped and scattered all over the table , save just on that spot between the two lamps , which accommodated Mr. Fitzpatrick 's blotting pad and inkpot , a pewter inkpot which held about a pint . ` How d'ye do , Hartfield ?