"Griffin," answered the Voice,—"a younger student, 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 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
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