“Listen to reason, will you?” said the Invisible Man, sticking to him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. “By Heaven! you’ll madden me in a minute! “Lie still, you fool!” bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp’s ear. Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still. “If you shout, I’ll smash your face,” said the Invisible Man, relieving his mouth. “I’m an Invisible Man. It’s no foolishness, and no magic. I really am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don’t want to hurt you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don’t you remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?” “Let me get up,” said Kemp. “I’ll stop where I am. And let me sit quiet for a minute.” He sat up and felt his neck. “I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself invisible. I am just an ordinary man—a man you have known—made invisible.” “Griffin?” said Kemp. “Griffin,” answered the Voice. A younger student than you were, almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry.” “I am confused,” said Kemp. “My brain is rioting. What has this to do with Griffin?” “I _am_ Griffin.” Kemp thought. “It’s horrible,” he said. “But what devilry must happen to make a man invisible?” “It’s no devilry. It’s a process, sane and intelligible enough—” “It’s horrible!” said Kemp. “How on earth—?” “It’s horrible enough. But I’m wounded and in pain, and tired ... Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food and drink, and let me sit down here.” Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed. It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so. He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. “This beats ghosts,” he said, and laughed stupidly. “That’s better. Thank Heaven, you’re getting sensible!” “Or silly,” said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes. “Give me some whiskey. I’m near dead.” “It didn’t feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you? _There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?” The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. “This is—this must be—hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible.” “Nonsense,” said the Voice. “It’s frantic.” “Listen to me.” “I demonstrated conclusively this morning,” began Kemp, “that invisibility—” “Never mind what you’ve demonstrated!—I’m starving,” said the Voice, “and the night is chilly to a man without clothes.” “Food?” said Kemp. The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. “Yes,” said the Invisible Man rapping it down. “Have you a dressing-gown?”