nine o’clock
The February dawn was just beginning when he dragged himself to a table and wrote . Then for hours afterward he sat sunk in his chair , the stupor of fatigue broken every now and then by a flash of curious introspection . It was a base thing which he had done -- it was also a strange thing psychologically -- and at intervals he tried to understand it -- to track it to its causes . At nine o'clock he crept out into the frosty daylight , found a commissionaire who was accustomed to do errands for him , and sent him with a letter to Lerwick Gardens . On his way back he passed a gunsmith 's , and stood looking fascinated at the shining barrels . Then he moved away , shaking his head , his eyes gleaming as though the spectacle of himself had long ago passed the bounds of tragedy -- become farcical even . ` I should only stand a month -- arguing -- with my finger on the trigger . '