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?”

Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone.  He walked to a wardrobe and produced a robe of dingy scarlet.  “This do?” he asked.  It was taken from him.  It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in his chair.  “Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort,” said the Unseen, curtly.  “And food.”

“Anything.  But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my life!”

He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs to ransack his larder.  He came back with some cold cutlets and bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest.  “Never mind knives,” said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air, with a sound of gnawing.

“Invisible!” said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair.

“I always like to get something about me before I eat,” said the Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily.  “Queer fancy!”

“I suppose that wrist is all right,” said Kemp.

“Trust me,” said the Invisible Man.

“Of all the strange and wonderful—­”

“Exactly.  But it’s odd I should blunder into your house to get my bandaging.  My first stroke of luck!  Anyhow I meant to sleep in this house to-night.  You must stand that!  It’s a filthy nuisance, my blood showing, isn’t it?  Quite a clot over there.  Gets visible as it coagulates, I see.  It’s only the living tissue I’ve changed, and only for as long as I’m alive....  I’ve been in the house three hours.”