He glided noiselessly to the door that opened into the entry, and locked that softly and bolted it carefully.  Then he turned the key so that the wards filled the keyhole, and taking out his handkerchief he hung it over the knob of the door, so that it fell across the keyhole, and no eye could by any chance have peered into the room.

He saw that the blinds of the windows were closed, the windows shut and locked, and the linen shades drawn over them.  He also let fall the heavy damask curtains, so that the windows were obliterated from the room.  He stood in the centre of the room and looked to every corner where, by any chance, a person might be concealed.

Then, moving upon tip-toe, he drew a key from his pocket and fitted it into the lid of a secretary.  As he turned it in the lock the snap of the bolt made him 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.