one o'clock
in the morning
He is one of those who fall in near the end of the line when the company joins hands to sidle across the stage , bowing and smiling , after the second act . Yet without him I wonder sometimes how my own play would have ended . It seems to me now as though he must have been born in Pogatuck , as though his whole life had been ordered , his love of going out developed , so that at the proper moment he might enter the stage where I was playing the hero to an empty house . He entered it at one o'clock in the morning . The door was chained . At the moment I was sitting in my room , on my one comfortable chair , my book on the floor at my side , my pipe in my mouth , and I was smoking very hard . What countless pipes I had smoked in this same way since the night , a month before , when I had dined with Rufus Blight !