But the story was not told that night. The invisible man’s wrist was growing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry. Kemp tried to gather what he could.

“He was afraid of me, I could see that he was afraid of me,” said the invisible man many times over. “He meant to give me the slip⁠—he was always casting about! What a fool I was!

“The cur!

“I should have killed him!”

“Where did you get the money?” asked Kemp, abruptly.

The invisible man was silent for a space. “I can’t tell you tonight,” he said.