m start. He was haggard, even ghastly, as he stood, letting
the lid back slowly, lest it should creak or jar. With another key he
opened a little drawer, and involuntarily looking behind him as he did
so, he took out a small piece of paper, which he concealed in his hand.

Seating himself at the secretary, he put the candle before him, and
remained for a moment with his face slightly strained forward with a
startling intentness of listening. There was no sound but the regular
ticking of the clock upon the mantle. He had not observed it before, but
now he could hear nothing else.

Tick, tick--tick, tick. It had a persistent, relentless, remorseless
regularity. Tick, tick--tick, tick. Every moment it appeared to be louder
and louder. His brow wrinkled and his head bent forward more deeply,
while his eyes were set straight before him. Tick, tick--tick, tick. The
solemn beat became human as he listened. He could not raise his head--he
could not turn his eyes. He felt as if some awful shape stood over him
with destroying eyes and inflexible tongue. But struggling, without
moving, as a dreamer wrestles with the nightmare, he presently sprang
bolt upright--his eyes wide and wild--the sweat oozing upon his ghastly
forehead--his whole frame weak and quivering. With the same suddenness
he turned defiantly, clenching his fists, in act to spring.

There was nothing there. He saw only the clock--the gilt pendulum
regularly swinging--he heard only the regular tick, tick--tick, tick.

A sickly smile glimmered on his face as he stepped toward the mantle,
still clutching the paper in his hand, but crouching as he came, and
leering, as if to leap upon an enemy unawares. Suddenly he started as
if struck--a stifled shriek of horror burst from his lips--he staggered
back--his hand opened--the paper fell fluttering to the floor. Abel Newt
had unexpectedly seen the reflection of his own face in the mirror that
covered the chimney behind the clock.

He recovered himself, swore bitterly, and stooped to pick up the paper.
Then with sullen bravado, still staring at his reflection in the glass,
he took off the glass shade of the clock, touched the pendulum and
stopped it; then turning his back, crept to his chair, and sat down
again.

The silence was profound, not a sound was audible but the creaking of his
clothes as he leaned heavily against the edge of the desk and drew his
agitated breath. He raised the candle and bent his gloomy face ove