twenty-five minutes past seven
It was a wireless , handed in on board the White Star liner Olympic , and it ran as follows : Remember . Death to the Family . S. Ginger sat down heavily on the bed . The driver of the taxi-cab which at twenty-five minutes past seven drew up at the dingy door of Bleke 's Coffee House in the Strand was rather struck by his fare 's manner and appearance . A determined-looking sort of young bloke , was the taxi-driver 's verdict . It had been Sally 's intention , on arriving in New York , to take a room at the St. Regis and revel in the gilded luxury to which her wealth entitled her before moving into the small but comfortable apartment which , as soon as she had the time , she intended to find and make her permanent abode . But when the moment came and she was giving directions to the taxi-driver at the dock , there seemed to her something revoltingly Fillmorian about the scheme .