But all he did was to save the life of the invisible man. Weldon's grasp on my wrists forced mine in some measure to relax. I put forth all my strength, but in vain. The invisible man used his chance and writhed away from me. I struggled afoot, casting Weldon off, but too late. The door opened before our eyes and our enemy, unseen, fled, banging the door behind him. I heard the patter of feet as he departed. The Captain uttered an oath. "Oh! you fool, you fool!" I cried at him. "By George!" gasped Weldon. "Did you see that door?" He rushed forward and opened it again, peering out into the passage. I fell into a chair spent and panting. Presently Weldon came back. He picked up his sword and examined it. There was a great gap in the edge near the point where I had struck it with the poker. "What is the meaning of all this?" he cried. I told him as soon as I was able. But from the first he did not believe me, and he was honest enough to say so. How could I blame him? The story sounded incredible, even to me, while I was telling it. Weldon adopted the most charitable possible view. I had dreamed everything and acted the somnambulist. He admitted that it was a queer circumstance, the door opening and shutting so unexpectedly. But no doubt one of the other lodgers in the house had tried it in passing--some late bird a bit under the weather, Weldon thought--and finding it yield had banged it shut again. It was no use retorting that the door had been locked--Weldon merely laughed and asked what more likely than that I had turned the latch before smashing his best blade? He was quite upset about his sword. It had been carried by his grandfather at Waterloo. He plainly considered the damage I had done to it was the only serious occurrence of the night. But he strove, like a hero, to keep me from realising just how bad he did feel about it. I ceased protesting at last, and abandoned the vain task of trying to convince him of the deadly peril that had menaced him. He returned the sword to its scabbard and with a subdued sigh got back into bed again. Within ten minutes he was fast asleep. As for me, I paced the floor till morning, thinking, thinking, thinking. I have no shame in confessing that I was horribly afraid; not of the immediate present, but the future. I did not expect our mysterious assailant to return that night. But what of the morrow? I am not a believer in the supernatural or I must have set down the unseen marauder as a spirit. But I had felt and wrestled with the thing, and knew it for a man. I had heard the patter of its feet. Moreover, the memory of the séance and Navarro's dramatic recitation supplied me with a sort of clue. What if Navarro had not been acting, but had really been clairvoyant? Who shall dare to define the limits of the possible? Was it more marvellous that he should have heard and seen things really happening in a trance, than that I--in full possession of