It was the small hours of the morning when we reached London Airport. I had cabled London from Amsterdam, and there was a hired car to meet, but there was one more unfortunate happening before I reached my flat. In all my travels I have never, but for that once, been required by the British customs to open a single bag or to do more than state that I carried no goods liable to duty. It was, of course, my fault; the extreme tiredness and nervous tension of the journey had destroyed my diplomacy. I was, for whichever reason, so tired that I could hardly stand, and to the question, "have you read this?" I replied with extreme foolishness, "yes, hundreds of times." "And you have nothing to declare?"  "Nothing." "How long have you been out of this country?"  "About three months." "And during that time you have acquired nothing?" "Nothing but what is on the list I have given you." He seemed momentarily at a loss, but then he attacked. The attack, when it came, was utterly unexpected. "Where did you get that watch?" I could have kicked myself. Two days before, when playing water games with a friend in the bath, I had forgotten to take off my ROLEX OYSTER, and it had, not unnaturally, stopped. I had gone into the market and bought, for twelve shillings and six pence, an ugly time piece that made a strange noise. It had stopped twice, without any reason, during the journey. I explained, but I had already lost face. I produced my own watch from a pocket, and added that I should be grateful if he would confiscate   the replacement. "It is not a question of confiscation," he said, "there is a fine for failing to declare dutiable goods. And now may I please examine that Rolex?"  It took another quarter of an hour to persuade him that the Rolex was not contraband  . Just when I let out a sigh of relief, he began to search my luggage! When did the writer arrive at London Airport?
In the early morning. Late at night. At noon. Late in the morning.