CHAPTER XIII

MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION

When the dusk was gathering and Iping was just beginning to peep

timorously forth again upon the shattered wreckage of its Bank

Holiday, a short, thick-set man in a shabby silk hat was marching

painfully through the twilight behind the beechwoods on the road to

Bramblehurst. He carried three books bound together by some sort

of ornamental elastic ligature, and a bundle wrapped in a blue

table-cloth. His rubicund face expressed consternation and fatigue;

he appeared to be in a spasmodic sort of hurry. He was accompanied

by a voice other than his own, and ever and again he winced under

the touch of unseen hands.

"If you give me the slip again," said the Voice, "if you attempt to

give me the slip again--"

Lord!" said Mr. Marvel. "That shoulder's a mass of bruises as it

is."

"On my honour," said the Voice, "I will kill you."

I didn't try to give you the slip," said Marvel, in a voice that

was not far remote from tears. "I swear I didn't. I didn't know the

The Invisible Man