quarter past eleven
Passing under the name of `` Mrs. Brand '' -- poor , so poor that she was obliged to pawn her ring -- left , by a man who was a foreigner , alone with her little girl -- was I on the trace of her at that moment ? Was this lost child destined to be the innocent means of leading me back to the woman I loved , in her direst need of sympathy and help ? The more I thought of it , the more strongly the idea of returning with the boy to the house in which his mother 's lodger lived fastened itself on my mind . The clock struck the quarter past eleven . If my anticipations ended in misleading me , I had still three-quarters of an hour to spare before the month reached its end . `` Where do you live ? '' I asked .