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.