three hours after midnight
`` DeVoe was right , there _ is _ a Power . I shall pray God every day to spare me , sweetheart , for now I want to live . '' The front room of the roadhouse was deserted save for the slumbering bartender , back-tilted in a corner , his chin upon his chest , and one other man who sat in the glare of a swing lamp playing solitaire . It was , perhaps , three hours after midnight . The last carouser had turned in . There was no sound save the scream of the black night and the cry of the salt wind . At intervals only , when the storm lulled , there came from the back room the sound of many men asleep .