He reread it. “Ran through the streets striking right and left. Jaffers insensible. Mr. Huxter in great pain⁠—still unable to describe what he saw. Painful humiliation⁠—vicar. Woman ill with terror! Windows smashed. This extraordinary story probably a fabrication. Too good not to print⁠— cum grano !”

He dropped the paper and stared blankly in front of him. “Probably a fabrication!”

He caught up the paper again, and reread the whole business. “But when does the tramp come in? Why the deuce was he chasing a tramp?”

He sat down abruptly on the surgical bench. “He’s not only invisible,” he said, “but he’s mad! Homicidal!”

When dawn came to mingle its pallor with the lamplight and cigar smoke of the dining room, Kemp was still pacing up and down, trying to grasp the incredible.