the
hour of one
There was a little China Buddha upon the bureau in one corner , with a gilded cap upon its head , and as some reflection of the moonlight sought out this little cap , my thoughts grotesquely turned upon the murdered man 's gold tooth . Vague creakings from within the house , sounds as though of stealthy footsteps upon the stair , set my nerves tingling ; but Nayland Smith gave no sign , and I knew that my imagination was magnifying these ordinary night sounds out of all proportion to their actual significance . Leaves rustled faintly outside the window at my back : I construed their sibilant whispers into the dreaded name -- Fu-Manchu-Fu-Manchu -- Fu-Manchu ! So wore on the night ; and , when the ticking clock hollowly boomed the hour of one , I almost leaped out of my chair , so highly strung were my nerves , and so appallingly did the sudden clangor beat upon them . Smith , like a man of stone , showed no sign . He was capable of so subduing his constitutionally high-strung temperament , at times , that temporarily he became immune from human dreads . On such occasions he would be icily cool amid universal panic ; but , his object accomplished , I have seen him in such a state of collapse , that utter nervous exhaustion is the only term by which I can describe it .