“Hello,” cried the policeman, “who’s there?”

Mr. Marvel cried, “He’ll kill me-he’s got a knife or something. Help me!”

“Come in here,” said the barman.

And he held up the flap of the bar.

“Don’t open the door,” Mr. Marvel screamed. “Please don’t open the door! Where shall I hide?”

“This, this Invisible Man, then?” asked the man with the black beard. “I guess it’s about time to see him.”

The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had been trying to see who was at the door.

“It’s him,” he said.

The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round to the two other men.

Everything was suddenly quiet.

“I wish I had my truncheon,” said the policeman, going to the door. “When we open the door, he will come in. We can’t stop him.”

“Don’t hasten to open that door,” said the anaemic cabman, anxiously.

“Draw the bolts,” said the man with the black beard, “and if he comes-”

He showed a revolver in his hand.

“That won’t do,” said the policeman; “that’s murder.”

“I know what country I’m in,” said the man with the beard. “I’m going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts.”

“Not at my neck,” said the barman.

“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and drew the bolts himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman looked at each other.