seven o'clock
He found no action in the present , and towards the future he dared not trust himself to look . He had slipped the old moorings that familiarity had rendered endurable ; but having slipped them , he had found no substitute . Such was his case on the last night of the three weeks , and such his frame of mind as he crossed Fleet Street from Clifford 's Inn to Middle Temple Lane . It was scarcely seven o'clock , but already the dusk was falling ; the greater press of vehicles had ceased , and the light of the street lamps gleamed back from the spaces of dry and polished roadway , worn smooth as a mirror by wheels and hoofs . Something of the solitude of night that sits so ill on the strenuous city street was making itself felt , though the throngs of people on the pathway still streamed eastward and westward and the taverns made a busy trade . Having crossed the roadway , Loder paused for a moment to survey the scene . But humanity in the abstract made small appeal to him , and his glance wandered from the passers-by to the buildings massed like clouds against the dark sky .