caught, it vanished. Then it began meowing in different parts of the room. At last I opened the window and made a bustle. I suppose it went out at last. I never saw any more of it.
“Then—heaven knows why—I fell thinking of my father’s funeral again, and the dismal windy hillside, until the day had come. I found sleeping was hopeless, and, locking my door after me, wandered out into the morning streets.”
“You don’t mean to say there’s an invisible cat at large!” said Kemp.
“If it hasn’t been killed,” said the invisible man. “Why not?”
“Why not?” said Kemp. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“It’s very probably been killed,” said the invisible man. “It was alive four days after, I know, and down a grating in Great Titchfield Street; because I saw a crowd round the place, trying to see whence the meowing came.”
He was silent for the best part of a minute. Then he resumed abruptly:
“I remember that morning before the change very vividly. I must have gone up Great Portland Street. I remember the barracks in Albany Street, and the horse soldiers coming out, and at last I found the summit of Primrose Hill. It was a sunny day in January—one of those sunny, frosty days that came before the snow this year. My weary brain tried to formulate the position, to plot out a plan of action.
“I was surprised to find, now that my prize was within my grasp, how inconclusive its attainment seemed. As a matter of fact I was worked out; the intense stress of nearly four years’ continuous work left me incapable of any strength of feeling. I was apathetic, and I tried in vain to recover the enthusiasm of my first inquiries, the passion of discovery that had