midnight
Conclusion . There is but little else to record . History has told us how , shamefaced , tired , dripping , the great , all-powerful people of Paris quietly slunk back to their homes , even before the first cock-crow in the villages beyond the gates , acclaimed the pale streak of dawn . But long before that , even before the church bells of the great city had tolled the midnight hour , Sir Percy Blakeney and his little band of followers had reached the little tavern which stands close to the farthest gate of Père Lachaise . Without a word , like six silent ghosts , they had traversed the vast cemetery , and reached the quiet hostelry , where the sounds of the seething revolution only came , attenuated by their passage through the peaceful city of the dead . English gold had easily purchased silence and good will from the half-starved keeper of this wayside inn . A huge travelling chaise already stood in readiness , and four good Flanders horses had been pawing the ground impatiently for the past half hour .