CHAPTER I. THE STRANGE MAN’S ARRIVAL

von H. G. Wells · 2026-03-31

The stranger arrived in early February on a cold, wintry day, battling through a biting wind and swirling snow—the last snowfall of the year. He trudged over the downs, walking from the Bramblehurst railway station, a small black suitcase clutched in his heavily gloved hand. Bundled up from head to toe, the brim of his soft felt hat obscured all but the shiny tip of his nose. Snow clung to his shoulders and chest, adding a white crown to the burden he carried.

He staggered into the “Coach and Horses,” looking more dead than alive, and dropped his suitcase with a thud. “A fire!” he called out, his voice urgent. “In the name of human kindness! A room and a fire!” He stamped his feet, shaking off the snow in the bar, and followed Mrs. Hall into her guest parlor to negotiate his stay. With that brief introduction and a couple of sovereigns tossed onto the table, he settled in at the inn.

Mrs. Hall lit the fire and left him there while she went to prepare a meal herself. A guest in Iping during winter was an unheard-of stroke of luck, especially one who didn’t haggle. She was determined to make the most of this fortunate encounter. Once the bacon was sizzling, and after giving her sluggish maid Millie a few well-chosen words of encouragement, she carried the tableware into the parlor, setting it up with great flair.

Though the fire crackled warmly, she was surprised to see that her guest still wore his hat and coat, standing with his back to her, gazing out the window at the falling snow. His gloved hands were clasped behind him, and he seemed lost in thought. She noticed the melting snow from his shoulders dripped onto her carpet. “Can I take your hat and coat, sir?” she asked. “I can dry them in the kitchen.”

“No,” he replied without turning around.

Unsure if she had heard him correctly, she was about to repeat her question when he turned his head slightly to look at her over his shoulder. “I prefer to keep them on,” he said firmly. She noticed he wore large blue spectacles with side shields, and his bushy side-whiskers obscured his cheeks and face.

“Very well, sir,” she said. “As you wish. The room will warm up soon.”

He didn’t respond and turned away again. Sensing her attempts at conversation were unwelcome, Mrs. Hall quickly finished setting the table and left the room. When she returned, he still stood there, like a statue, hunched over with his collar turned up and his dripping hat brim pulled down, hiding his face and ears completely. She placed the eggs and bacon on the table with a bit of emphasis and called out, “Your lunch is served, sir.”

“Thank you,” he replied, but didn’t move until she was closing the door. Then he turned and approached the table with an eager quickness.

As she went back to the kitchen, she heard a sound repeating at regular intervals. Chirk, chirk, chirk—the sound of a spoon whisking rapidly in a basin. “That girl!” she muttered. “I completely forgot about her! She’s taking forever!” While she finished mixing the mustard, she gave Millie a few verbal jabs for her sluggishness. Mrs. Hall had cooked the ham and eggs, set the table, and done everything, while Millie had only managed to delay the mustard. And here was a new guest wanting to stay!

After filling the mustard pot, she placed it on a gold and black tea tray and carried it back into the parlor.

She knocked and entered promptly. As she did, her visitor moved quickly, and she caught only a glimpse of a white object disappearing behind the table. It seemed he was picking something up from the floor. She set the mustard pot down on the table and noticed that his coat and hat had been removed and draped over a chair in front of the fire, while a pair of wet boots threatened to rust her steel fender. She approached them decisively. “I assume I can have these to dry now,” she said, her tone leaving no room for refusal.

“Leave the hat,” he said in a muffled voice, and when she turned, she saw he had lifted his head and was looking at her.

For a moment, she stood there, gaping at him, too surprised to speak.

He held a white cloth—a napkin he had brought with him—over the lower part of his face, completely hiding his mouth and jaw, which was why his voice sounded so muffled. But it wasn’t just that that startled Mrs. Hall. It was the sight of his forehead, covered by a white bandage, and another bandage wrapped around his ears, leaving only his pink, pointed nose exposed. It was bright, shiny, and just as it had been before. He wore a dark-brown velvet jacket with a high, black, linen-lined collar turned up around his neck. His thick black hair peeked out from beneath the bandages, sticking out in odd tails and horns, giving him an utterly bizarre appearance. This muffled, bandaged figure was so different from what she had expected that she froze for a moment.

He didn’t remove the napkin but kept holding it with a brown-gloved hand, looking at her through his inscrutable blue glasses. “Leave the hat,” he said, his voice clear despite the cloth.

Gradually, her nerves began to settle. She placed the hat back on the chair by the fire. “I didn’t know, sir,” she started, then trailed off, feeling embarrassed.

“Thank you,” he replied dryly, glancing from her to the door and back again.

“I’ll get them nicely dried right away, sir,” she said, taking his clothes out of the room. As she left, she stole another glance at his bandaged head and blue goggles, but the napkin remained in front of his face. A shiver ran down her spine as she closed the door behind her, her expression revealing her surprise and confusion. “I _never_,” she whispered to herself. “There!” She tiptoed to the kitchen, too distracted to ask Millie what she was up to this time.

The visitor sat quietly, listening to her footsteps fade away. He glanced at the window before finally removing the napkin and resuming his meal. He took a bite, looked suspiciously at the window, took another bite, then stood up. With the napkin in hand, he walked across the room and pulled the blind down to the top of the white muslin that covered the lower panes, casting the room into a dim twilight. With that done, he returned to the table, appearing more relaxed as he continued eating.

“The poor soul’s had an accident or an operation or something,” Mrs. Hall murmured. “What a shock those bandages gave me!”

She added more coal to the fire, unfolded a clothes-horse, and draped the traveler’s coat over it. “And those goggles! He looked more like he was wearing a diving helmet than being human!” She hung his muffler on a corner of the horse. “And holding that handkerchief over his mouth all the time. Talking through it! ... Maybe his mouth was hurt too—who knows?”

Suddenly, she remembered something. “Bless my soul!” she exclaimed, veering off in another direction. “Aren’t those potatoes done yet, Millie?”

When Mrs. Hall returned to clear away the stranger’s lunch, her suspicion that his mouth must also have been injured was confirmed. He was smoking a pipe, and throughout her time in the room, he never loosened the silk muffler wrapped around his face to bring the mouthpiece to his lips. Yet it wasn’t forgetfulness; she noticed him glance at the smoldering pipe. He sat in the corner with his back to the window blind, and now, having eaten and warmed up, he spoke with less brusqueness than before. The firelight cast a warm glow on his large spectacles, giving them a lively sparkle.

“I have some luggage at Bramblehurst station,” he said, asking how he could have it sent. He nodded politely as she explained the process. “Tomorrow?” he asked. “Is there no quicker delivery?” He seemed genuinely disappointed when she replied, “No.” Was she sure? Was there no man with a cart who could go over?

Mrs. Hall, more than willing to engage, answered his questions and kept the conversation going. “It’s a steep road down that way, sir,” she said in response to his query about a cart. Then, seizing an opportunity, she added, “That’s where a carriage overturned a year ago or more. A gentleman was killed, along with his coachman. Accidents can happen in an instant, can’t they?”

But the visitor was not easily drawn into her chatter. “They do,” he replied through his muffler, watching her intently through his impenetrable glasses.

“But they take a long time to heal, don’t they? My sister’s son, Tom, just cut his arm with a scythe—he fell on it in the hayfield, and bless me! He was tied up for three months, sir. You wouldn’t believe it. It’s given me a real fear of scythes.”

“I can understand that,” said the visitor.

“He was worried at one point that he’d need an operation—he was that bad, sir.”

The visitor let out a sudden laugh, a sharp bark that he seemed to swallow back. “Was he?” he asked.

“He was, sir. And it was no laughing matter for those of us who had to deal with him, especially since my sister was busy with her little ones. There were bandages to apply and bandages to remove. So, if I may be so bold as to say—”

“Can you get me some matches?” the visitor interrupted, his tone abrupt. “My pipe’s gone out.”

Mrs. Hall was taken aback. It felt rude of him, especially after she had shared everything she had done. She stared at him for a moment, then remembered the two sovereigns he had given her. She went to fetch the matches.

“Thanks,” he said curtly as she placed them down, turning away from her to gaze out the window again. It was all quite discouraging. Clearly, he was sensitive about the topic of operations and bandages. But she didn’t dare say anything more. His dismissive attitude had annoyed her, and Millie had a rough time that afternoon.

The visitor stayed in the parlor until four o’clock, offering no explanation for his intrusion. For the most part, he sat in silence, enveloped in the growing darkness, smoking in the firelight—perhaps dozing off.

A curious listener might have caught the sound of him stirring the coals once or twice, and for a brief five minutes, the sound of his footsteps echoed as he paced the room. It seemed he was talking to himself. Then the armchair creaked as he settled back down again.