“One minute,” said the Voice, penetratingly, tremulous with self-control. “Well?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, with a strange feeling of having been dug in the chest by a finger. “You think I’m just imagination? Just imagination?” “What else _can_ you be?” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, rubbing the back of his neck. “Very well,” said the Voice, in a tone of relief. “Then I’m going to throw flints at you till you think differently.” “But where _are_ yer?” The Voice made no answer. Whizz came a flint, apparently out of the air, and missed Mr. Marvel’s shoulder by a hair’s-breadth. Mr. Marvel, turning, saw a flint jerk up into the air, trace a complicated path, hang for a moment, and then fling at his feet with almost invisible rapidity. He was too amazed to dodge. Whizz it came, and ricochetted from a bare toe into the ditch. Mr. Thomas Marvel jumped a foot and howled aloud. Then he started to run, tripped over an unseen obstacle, and came head over heels into a sitting position. “_Now_,” said the Voice, as a third stone curved upward and hung in the air above the tramp. “Am I imagination?” Mr. Marvel by way of reply struggled to his feet, and was immediately rolled over again. He lay quiet for a moment. “If you struggle any more,” said the Voice, “I shall throw the flint at your head.” “It’s a fair do,” said Mr. Thomas Marvel, sitting up, taking his wounded toe in hand and fixing his eye on the third missile. “I don’t understand it. Stones flinging themselves. Stones talking. Put yourself down. Rot away. I’m done.” The third flint fell. “It’s very simple,” said the Voice. “I’m an invisible man.” “Tell us something I don’t know,” said Mr. Marvel, gasping with pain. “Where you’ve hid—how you do it—I _don’t_ know. I’m beat.” “That’s all,” said the Voice. “I’m invisible. That’s what I want you to understand.” “Anyone could see that. There is no need for you to be so confounded impatient, mister. _Now_ then. Give us a notion. How are you hid?” “I’m invisible. That’s the great point. And what I want you to understand is this—” “But whereabouts?” interrupted Mr. Marvel. “Here! Six yards in front of you.” “Oh, _come_! I ain’t blind. You’ll be telling me next you’re just thin air. I’m not one of your ignorant tramps—” “Yes, I am—thin air. You’re looking through me.” “What! Ain’t there any stuff to you. _Vox et_—what is it?—jabber. Is it that?” “I am just a human being—solid, needing food and drink, needing covering too—But I’m invisible. You see? Invisible. Simple idea. Invisible.” “What, real like?” “Yes, real.” “Let’s have a hand of you,” said Marvel, “if you _are_ real. It won’t be so darn out-of-the-way like, then—_Lord_!” he said, “how you made me jump!—gripping me like that!” He felt the hand that had closed round his wrist with his disengaged fingers, and his fingers went timorously up the arm, patted a muscular chest, and explored a bearded face. Marvel’s face was astonishment.