Eleven--twelve--he started, and turned very white, but listened still, for he knew that he should hear another clock striking in a few seconds.

As the strokes followed each other, his heart beat like a fulling-hammer, giving a succession of quick blows, and pausing to repeat the rhythmic tattoo more loudly and painfully than before.

Ten--eleven--twelve--there was no mistake.

The day was over.

It was midnight, and no one had come.