nearly five o'clock
Is there no home ? no voice of a friend ? no helping hand to save him from that worst of all enemies -- his evil self ? It was nearly five o'clock when , without knowing how he got there , he found himself on the familiar ground of Shy Street . In the dim lamplight he scarcely recognised it at first , but when he did it seemed like a final stroke of irony to bring him there , at such a time , in such a mood . What else could it be meant for but to remind him there was no escape , no hope of losing himself , no chance of forgetting ? That gaunt , empty window of Number 13 , with the reflected glare of the lamp opposite upon it , seemed to leer down on him like a mocking ghost , claiming him as its own .