the hour of ten
It was a clear case of `` stole away . '' When Major Alan Hawke leaned over the supper table at the Casino , pledging Madame Frangipanni 's bright eyes in very fair cafe champagne , he nervously started as he heard the wailing whistle and clanging bells of the through train for Constance . He forgot the faded complexion , the worn face , the chemically tinted hair and haggard eyes of the broken-down Austrian blonde concert singer , in the exhilaration of Berthe Louison 's departure . For he had not lost Professor Casimir Wieniawski from sight a moment since the hour of ten , and that `` distinguished noble refugee '' was now in a maudlin way , murmuring perfunctory endearments in the ear of the ex-prima donna , who tenderly gazed upon him in a proprietary manner . Alan Hawke had judged it well to ply the champagne , and , at the witching hour of midnight , he critically inspected Casimir 's condition . `` He is probably about tipsy enough now to tell all he knows , and , with an acquired truthfulness . I will , therefore , bring this festive occasion to a close . ''