The Epilogue

So ends the story of the strange and evil experiments of the Invisible Man. And if you would learn more of him you must go to a little inn near Port Stowe and talk to the landlord. The sign of the inn is an empty board save for a hat and boots, and the name is the title of this story. The landlord is a short and corpulent little man with a nose of cylindrical proportions, wiry hair, and a sporadic rosiness of visage. Drink generously, and he will tell you generously of all the things that happened to him after that time, and of how the lawyers tried to do him out of the treasure found upon him.

So ends the story of the Invisible Man’s strange and evil experiments. If you want to learn more about him, you must visit a small inn near Port Stowe and talk to the landlord. The inn’s sign is an empty board except for a hat and boots. Its name is the title of this story. The landlord is a short, fat little man with a cylindrical nose, wiry hair, and patches of redness on his face. Drink generously, and he will tell you generously about everything that happened to him afterward. He will also tell you how the lawyers tried to cheat him out of the treasure found on him.

“When they found they couldn’t prove whose money was which, I’m blessed,” he says, “if they didn’t try to make me out a blooming treasure trove! Do I look like a Treasure Trove? And then a gentleman gave me a guinea a night to tell the story at the Empire Music ’All—just to tell ’em in my own words—barring one.”

“When they found they couldn’t prove whose money was whose, I’ll be damned,” he says, “if they didn’t try to claim I was a bloody treasure trove! Do I look like a Treasure Trove? Then a gentleman paid me a guinea a night to tell the story at the Empire Music Hall. I just had to tell them in my own words, except for one.”

And if you want to cut off the flow of his reminiscences abruptly, you can always do so by asking if there weren’t three manuscript books in the story. He admits there were and proceeds to explain, with asseverations that everybody thinks he has ’em! But bless you! he hasn’t. “The Invisible Man it was took ’em off to hide ’em when I cut and ran for Port Stowe. It’s that Mr. Kemp put people on with the idea of my having ’em.”

If you want to stop his reminiscences abruptly, just ask whether there were three manuscript books in the story. He admits there were. Then he explains, insisting that everyone thinks he has them! But bless you! He hasn’t. “The Invisible Man it was took them off to hide them when I cut and ran for Port Stowe. It’s that Mr. Kemp put people on with the idea of my having them.”

And then he subsides into a pensive state, watches you furtively, bustles nervously with glasses, and presently leaves the bar.

Then he grows thoughtful and watches you secretly. He nervously fusses with the glasses and soon leaves the bar.

He is a bachelor man—his tastes were ever bachelor, and there are no women folk in the house. Outwardly he buttons—it is expected of him—but in his more vital privacies, in the matter of braces for example, he still turns to string. He conducts his house without enterprise, but with eminent decorum. His movements are slow, and he is a great thinker. But he has a reputation for wisdom and for a respectable parsimony in the village, and his knowledge of the roads of the South of England would beat Cobbett.

He is a bachelor, and his tastes have always been those of a bachelor. There are no women in the house. On the outside, he uses buttons, as people expect him to. But in more private matters, such as holding up his trousers, he still relies on string. He runs his house without much initiative, but with great propriety. He moves slowly and thinks a great deal. But in the village, he has a reputation for wisdom and respectable thrift. He knows the roads of the South of England better than Cobbett.

And on Sunday mornings, every Sunday morning, all the year round, while he is closed to the outer world, and every night after ten, he goes into his bar parlour, bearing a glass of gin faintly tinged with water, and having placed this down, he locks the door and examines the blinds, and even looks under the table. And then, being satisfied of his solitude, he unlocks the cupboard and a box in the cupboard and a drawer in that box, and produces three volumes bound in brown leather, and places them solemnly in the middle of the table. The covers are weather-worn and tinged with an algal green—for once they sojourned in a ditch and some of the pages have been washed blank by dirty water. The landlord sits down in an armchair, fills a long clay pipe slowly—gloating over the books the while. Then he pulls one towards him and opens it, and begins to study it—turning over the leaves backwards and forwards.

Every Sunday morning, all year round, while his establishment is closed to the public, he goes into his bar parlour. He also goes there every night after ten. He carries a glass of gin with a little water in it. After setting it down, he locks the door, checks the blinds, and even looks under the table. Once he is satisfied that he is alone, he unlocks the cupboard, a box inside it, and a drawer inside the box. He takes out three volumes bound in brown leather and solemnly places them in the middle of the table. The covers are weather-worn and tinged with algae green, for the books once lay in a ditch. Some of their pages have been washed blank by dirty water. The landlord sits down in an armchair and slowly fills a long clay pipe, gloating over the books. Then he pulls one towards him, opens it, and begins to study it, turning the pages back and forth.

His brows are knit and his lips move painfully. “Hex, little two up in the air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord! what a one he was for intellect!”

His eyebrows are drawn together, and his lips move painfully. “Hex, little two up in the air, cross and a fiddle-de-dee. Lord! He was something when it came to brains!”

Presently he relaxes and leans back, and blinks through his smoke across the room at things invisible to other eyes. “Full of secrets,” he says. “Wonderful secrets!”

Soon he relaxes and leans back. He blinks through his smoke at things across the room that no one else can see. “Full of secrets,” he says. “Wonderful secrets!”

“Once I get the haul of them—Lord!”

“Once I get hold of them, Lord!”

“I wouldn’t do what he did; I’d just—well!” He pulls at his pipe.

“I wouldn’t do what he did. I’d just, well!” He takes a puff on his pipe.

So he lapses into a dream, the undying wonderful dream of his life. And though Kemp has fished unceasingly, no human being save the landlord knows those books are there, with the subtle secret of invisibility and a dozen other strange secrets written therein. And none other will know of them until he dies.

So he slips into a dream, the endless, wonderful dream of his life. Although Kemp has searched tirelessly, no one but the landlord knows the books are there. They contain the subtle secret of invisibility and a dozen other strange secrets. No one else will know about the books until the landlord dies.