“Very well,” said the man with the black beard, and stooping down, revolver ready, drew them himself.  Barman, cabman, and policeman faced about.

“Come in,” said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him.  No one came in, the door remained closed.  Five minutes afterwards when a second cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied information.  “Are all the doors of the house shut?” asked Marvel.  “He’s going round—­prowling round.  He’s as artful as the devil.”

“Good Lord!” said the burly barman.  “There’s the back!  Just watch them doors!  I say—!” He looked about him helplessly.  The bar-parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn.  “There’s the yard door and the private door.  The yard door—­”

He rushed out of the bar.

In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand.  “The yard door was open!” he said, and his fat underlip dropped.  “He may be in the house now!” said the first cabman.

“He’s not in the kitchen,” said the barman.  “There’s two women there, and I’ve stabbed every inch of it with this little beef slicer.  And they don’t think he’s come in.  They haven’t noticed—­”

“Have you fastened it?” asked the first cabman.

“I’m out of frocks,” said the barman.

The man with the beard replaced his revolver.  And even as he did so the flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then with a tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the bar-parlour door burst open.  They heard Marvel squeal like a caught leveret, and forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his rescue.  The bearded man’s revolver cracked and the looking-glass at the back of the parlour starred and came smashing and tinkling down.

As the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled up and struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen.  The door flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was dragged into the kitchen.  There was a scream and a clatter of pans.  Marvel, head down, and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the kitchen door, and the bolts were drawn.

Then the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed in, followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the invisible hand that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went reeling back.  The door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to obtain a lodgment behind it.  Then the cabman collared something.  “I got him,” said the cabman.  The barman’s red hands came clawing at the unseen.  “Here he is!” said the barman.

Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men.  The struggle blundered round the edge of the door.  The voice of the Invisible Man was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the policeman trod on his foot.  Then he cried out passionately and his fists flew round like flails.  The cabman suddenly whooped and doubled up, kicked under the diaphragm.  The door into the bar-parlour from the kitchen slammed and covered Mr. Marvel’s retreat.  The men in the kitchen found themselves clutching at and struggling with empty air.