At Port Stowe

           Teno'clockthenextmorningfoundMr.Marvel,unshaven,dirty,andtravel-stained,sittingwiththebooksbesidehimandhishandsdeepinhispockets,lookingveryweary,nervous,anduncomfortable,andinflatinghischeeksatinfrequentintervals,onthebenchoutsidealittleinnontheoutskirtsofPortStowe. Besidehimwerethebooks,butnowtheyweretiedwithstring. Thebundlehadbeenabandonedinthepine-woodsbeyondBramblehurst,inaccordancewithachangeintheplansoftheInvisibleMan. Mr.Marvelsatonthebench,andalthoughnoonetooktheslightestnoticeofhim,hisagitationremainedatfeverheat. Hishandswouldgoeverandagaintohisvariouspocketswithacuriousnervousfumbling. 

           Whenhehadbeensittingforthebestpartofanhour,however,anelderlymariner,carryinganewspaper,cameoutoftheinnandsatdownbesidehim. "Pleasantday,"saidthemariner. 

           Mr.Marvelglancedabouthimwithsomethingveryliketerror. "Very,"hesaid. 

           "Justseasonableweatherforthetimeofyear,"saidthemariner,takingnodenial. 

           "Quite,"saidMr.Marvel. 

           Themarinerproducedatoothpick,and(savinghisregard)wasengrossedtherebyforsomeminutes. HiseyesmeanwhilewereatlibertytoexamineMr.Marvel'sdustyfigure,andthebooksbesidehim. AshehadapproachedMr.Marvelhehadheardasoundlikethedroppingofcoinsintoapocket. HewasstruckbythecontrastofMr.Marvel'sappearancewiththissuggestionofopulence. Thencehismindwanderedbackagaintoatopicthathadtakenacuriouslyfirmholdofhisimagination.