74. CHAPTER LXXIV.
MIDNIGHT.
Gradually the sneer faded from Abel's face, and he walked
up and down the room, no longer carelessly, but fitfully; stopping
sometimes—again starting more rapidly—then leaning
against the mantle, on which the clock pointed to midnight—
then throwing himself into a chair or upon a sofa; and so,
rising again, walked on.
His head bent forward—his eyes grew rounder and harder,
and seemed to be burnished with the black, bad light; his
step imperceptibly grew stealthy—he looked about him carefully—he
stood erect and breathless to listen—bit his nails,
and walked on.
The clock upon the mantle pointed to half an hour after
midnight. Abel Newt went into his chamber and put on his
slippers. He lighted a candle, and looked carefully under the
bed and in the closet. Then he drew the shades over the
windows and went out into the other room, closing and locking
the door behind him.
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.
[ILLUSTRATION]
The Face In The Mirror.
[Description: 538EAF. Page 420. In-line Illustration. Image of a man at a desk. He is standing but slightly bent over. He has a key in one hand and is reaching towards a drawer while looking over his shoulder. There is a candle on the desk that casts a large shadow of the man on the wall behind him.]
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 over the paper which he held
before him. It was a note of his late firm indorsed by Lawrence
Newt & Co. He gazed at his uncle's signature intently,
studying every line, every dot—so intently that it seemed
as if his eyes would burn it. Then putting down the candle
and spreading the name before him, he drew a sheet of tissue
paper from a drawer and placed it over it. The writing was
perfectly legible—the finest stroke showed through the thin
tissue. He filled a pen and carefully drew the lines of the
signature upon the tissue paper—then raised it—the fac-simile
was perfect.
Taking a thicker piece of paper, he laid the note before him,
and slowly, carefully, copied the signature. The result was a
resemblance, but nothing more. He held the paper in the
flame of the candle until it was consumed. He tried again.
He tried many times. Each trial was a greater success.
Tearing a check from his book he filled the blanks and
wrote below the name of Lawrence Newt & Co., and found,
upon comparison with the indorsement, that it was very like.
Abel Newt grinned; his lips moved: he was muttering “Dear
Uncle Lawrence.”
He stopped writing, and carefully burned, as before, the
check and all the paper. Then covering his face with his
hands as he sat, he said to himself, as the hot, hurried
thoughts flickered through his mind,
“Yes, yes, Mrs. Lawrence Newt, I shall not be master of
Pinewood, but I shall be of your husband, and he will be master
of your property. Practice makes perfect. Dear Uncle
Lawrence shall be my banker.”
His brain reeled and whirled as he sat. He remembered
the words of his friend the General: “Abel Newt was not
born to fail.”
“No, by God!” he shouted, springing up, and clenching his
hands.
He staggered. The walls of the room, the floor, the ceiling,
the furniture heaved and rolled before his eyes. In the wild
tumult that overwhelmed his brain as if he were sinking in
gurgling whirlpools—the peaceful lawn of Pinewood—the fight
with Gabriel—the running horses—the “Farewell forever, Miss
Wayne”—the shifting chances of his subsequent life—Grace
Plumer blazing with diamonds—the figure of his father drumming
with white fingers upon his office-desk—Lawrence and
Gabriel pushing him out—they all swept before his consciousness
in the moment during which he threw out his hands wildly,
clutched at the air, and plunged headlong upon the floor,
senseless.
