And then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road yelped and ran under a gate. Then something-a wind-a pad, pad, pad, – a sound like a panting breathing, rushed by.

People screamed. They were shouting in the street before Marvel was halfway there. They were slamming the doors behind them, with the news. In a moment, fear had seized the town.

“The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!”

The “Jolly Cricketers” is just at the bottom of the hill, where the tram-lines begin. The barman talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-beared man in gray ate biscuit and cheese, drank beer, and conversed with a policeman off duty.

“What’s the shouting about?” said the anaemic cabman.

Somebody ran by outside.

“Fire, perhaps,” said the barman.

Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and attempted to shut the door.

“Coming!” he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. “He’s coming. The Inisible Man! After me! Help! Help! Help!”

“Shut the doors,” said the policeman. “Who’s coming? What’s the matter?”

He went to the door, and it slammed.

“Let me go inside,” said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still clutching the books. “Let me go inside. Lock me in-somewhere. I tell you he’s after me. I escaped. He said he’d kill me and he will.”

“You’re safe,” said the man with the black beard. “The door’s shut. What’s it all about?”

“Let me go inside,” said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow suddenly made the fastened door shiver. There was a hurried rapping and a shouting outside.

“Hello,” cried the policeman, “who’s there?”

Mr. Marvel cried, “He’ll kill me-he’s got a knife or something. Help me!”

“Come in here,” said the barman.

And he held up the flap of the bar.

“Don’t open the door,” Mr. Marvel screamed. “Please don’t open the door! Where shall I hide?”

“This, this Invisible Man, then?” asked the man with the black beard. “I guess it’s about time to see him.”

The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been trying to see who was at the door.

“It’s him,” he said.

The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men.

Everything was suddenly quiet.

“I wish I had my truncheon,” said the policeman, going to the door. “When we open the door, he will come in. We can’t stop him.”

“Don’t hasten to open that door,” said the anaemic cabman, anxiously.

“Draw the bolts,” said the man with the black beard, “and if he comes-”

He showed a revolver in his hand.

“That won’t do,” said the policeman; “that’s murder.”

“I know what country I’m in,” said the man with the beard. “I’m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts.”

“Not at my neck,” said the barman.

“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and drew the bolts himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman looked at each other.

“Come in,” said the bearded man, facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him.

No one came in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman came in, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and asked, “Are all the doors of the house shut? He’s going round-prowling round. He’s as artful as the devil.”

“Good Lord!” said the barman. “There’s the back door!”

He looked about him helplessly. The bar-parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn.

“There’s the yard door and the private door. The yard door-”

He rushed out of the bar.

In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand.

“The yard door was open!” he said.

“He may be in the house now!” said the first cabman.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” said the barman. “There are two women there, and they don’t think he’s come in. They haven’t noticed anything.”

“Have you fastened it?” asked the first cabman.

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