THE INVISIBLE MAN
"But how was it all done?" said Kemp, "and how did you get like this?"
"For God's sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! And then I will begin to tell you."
But the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man's wrist was growing painful, he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came round to brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about the inn. He spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his voice grew angry. Kemp tried to gather what he could.
"He was afraid of me, I could see he was afraid of me," said the Invisible Man many times over. "He meant to give me the slip—he was always casting about! What a fool I was!
"I should have killed him———"
"Where did you get the money?" asked Kemp, abruptly.
The Invisible Man was silent for a space. "I can't tell you to-night," he said.
He groaned suddenly and leant forward, supporting his invisible head on invisible hands. "Kemp," he said, "I've had no sleep for near three days,—except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I must sleep soon."
"Well, have my room—have this room."
"But how can I sleep? If I sleep—he will get away. Ugh! What does it matter?"
"What's the shot-wound?" asked Kemp, abruptly.
"Nothing—scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep!"