A groan came from Mrs. Ridley’s lips as she sank down upon the bed, where, with her face hidden, she lay as still as if sleeping.  She did not move nor speak for the space of more than half an hour, and all the while her nurse waited and listened through the weird, incessant noises of the storm for the coming of Dr. Hillhouse, but waited and listened in vain.

All at once, as if transferred to within a few hundred rods of these anxious watchers, the great clock of the city, which in the still hours of a calm night could be heard ringing out clear but afar off, threw a resonant clang upon the air, pealing the first stroke of the hour of twelve.  Mrs. Ridley started up in bed with a scared look on her face.  Away the sound rolled, borne by the impetuous wind-wave that had caught it up as the old bell shivered it off, and carried it away so swiftly that it seemed to die almost in the moment it was born.  The listeners waited, holding their breaths.  Then, swept from the course this first peal had taken, the second came to their ears after a long interval muffled and from a distance, followed almost instantly by the third, which went booming past them louder than the first.  And so, with strange intervals and variations of time and sound as the wind dashed wildly onward or broke and swerved from its course, the noon of night was struck, and the silence that for a brief time succeeded left a feeling of awe upon the hearts of these lonely women.

To the ears of another had come these strange and solemn tones, struck out at midnight away up in the clear rush of the tempest, and swept away in a kind of mad sport, and tossed about in the murky sky.  To the ears of another, who, struggling and battling with the storm, had made his way with something of a blind instinct to within a short distance of his home, every stroke of the clock seemed to come from a different quarter; and when the last peal rang out, it left him in helpless bewilderment.  When he staggered on again, it was in a direction opposite to that in which he had been going.  For ten minutes he wrought with the blinding and suffocating snow, which, turn as he would, the wind kept dashing into his face, and then his failing limbs gave out and he sunk benumbed with cold upon the pavement.  Half buried in the snow, he was discovered soon afterward and carried to a police station, where he found himself next morning in one of the cells, a wretched, humiliated, despairing man.

“Why, Mr. Ridley!  It can’t be possible!” It was the exclamation of the police magistrate when this man was brought, soon after daylight, before him.

Ridley stood dumb in presence of the officer, who was touched by the helpless misery of his face.

“You were at Mr. Birtwell’s?”

Ridley answered by a silent inclination of his head.

“I do not wonder,” said the magistrate, his voice softening, “that, you lost your way in the storm last night.  You are not the only one who found himself astray and at fault.  Our men had to take care of quite a number of Mr. Birtwell’s guests.  But I will not detain you, Mr. Ridley.  I am sorry this has happened.  You must be more careful in future.”