about eleven o'clock at night
Leafy Hatfield , crooked Hitchin , quaint old Stamford , we passed , until we swung into the yard of `` The Angel , '' that antique and comfortable hotel well known to all motorists at Grantham , where we had a hasty meal . Then out again in the sunset , we headed through Doncaster to York , and in the darkness , with our big head-lamps shining , we tore through Malton , and slipped down the hill into Scarborough . The run had been a long and dusty one , the last fifty miles in darkness and at a high speed , therefore when we pulled up before the Grand I leaned heavily upon the steering-wheel , weary and fagged . It was about eleven o'clock at night , and Sir Charles , who had evidently been expecting our arrival in the big hall of the hotel , rushed out and greeted Bindo effusively . Then , directed by a page-boy , who sat in the Count 's seat , I took the car round to Hutton 's garage , close by . With Sir Charles I noticed another man , young , with very fair hair -- a mere boy , he seemed -- in evening clothes of the latest cut . When I returned to the hotel I saw them all seated in the big hall over whiskies and sodas , laughing merrily together .