ten minutes past eight
Seizing his hat , he ran down the stairs , hailed a hansom , and drove to the nearest restaurant he could think of . After eating without knowledge of the viands , and drinking a bottle of claret in like unconsciousness , he smoked for half an hour , his eyes vacantly set , his limbs lax and heavy , as though in the torpor of difficult digestion . When the cigar was finished , he roused himself , looked at the time , and asked for a railway guide . There was a train to Wimbledon at ten minutes past eight ; he might possibly catch it . Starting into sudden activity , he hastily left the restaurant , and reached Waterloo Station with not a moment to spare . At Wimbledon he took a cab , and was driven up the hill . Under a clouded sky , dusk had already changed to darkness ; the evening was warm and still .