CHAPTER IV. MR. CUSS INTERVIEWS THE STRANGER

by H. G. Wells · 2026-03-31

I’ve shared the details surrounding the stranger’s arrival in Iping to help you understand the peculiar impression he left on everyone. However, aside from a couple of strange incidents, his time there until the day of the club festival can be summed up quickly.

There were several disagreements with Mrs. Hall about household matters, but until late April, when money started to run low, he managed to silence her with the simple solution of paying extra. Mr. Hall didn’t like him at all, and whenever he had the chance, he suggested they should get rid of him. But he mostly hid his dislike, avoiding the stranger whenever possible. “Just wait until summer,” Mrs. Hall said wisely. “That’s when the artists start coming. Then we’ll see. He might be a bit overbearing, but punctual bills are still punctual bills, no matter what you think.”

The stranger didn’t attend church and treated Sundays like any other day, even in his choice of clothing. Mrs. Hall thought he worked in fits and starts. Some days he would rise early and stay busy, while on others he’d sleep in, pacing his room and muttering to himself for hours, smoking and dozing in the armchair by the fire. He had no contact with the outside world, and his temper was unpredictable. Most of the time, he seemed to be on edge, and there were moments when he snapped, breaking things in sudden bursts of anger. It was clear he was under a constant, intense irritation. He began to talk to himself more often, but despite Mrs. Hall’s efforts to listen, she couldn’t make sense of what he was saying.

He rarely ventured outside during the day, but as twilight fell, he would wrap himself up and head out, regardless of the weather. He preferred the loneliest paths, shaded by trees and banks. His goggling glasses and the bandages covering his face would appear suddenly from the darkness, startling a few laborers on their way home. One night, Teddy Henfrey stumbled out of the “Scarlet Coat” at half-past nine and was horrified to see the stranger’s skull-like head illuminated by the inn’s doorway. The local children who caught a glimpse of him at dusk would have nightmares, and it was hard to tell whether he disliked boys more than they disliked him, but there was certainly a strong mutual aversion.

It was only natural that someone with such a striking appearance would become a frequent topic of conversation in a small village like Iping. Opinions about his profession were sharply divided. Mrs. Hall was particularly sensitive about it. When asked, she carefully explained that he was an “experimental investigator,” carefully pronouncing each syllable as if afraid of making a mistake. When pressed about what an experimental investigator actually did, she would respond with a hint of superiority, saying that educated people understood such things, and would add that he “discovered things.” She mentioned that he had suffered an accident, which had temporarily discolored his face and hands, and that, being a sensitive person, he preferred not to draw attention to it.

However, away from her ears, many believed he was a criminal trying to evade the law by disguising himself. This theory originated with Mr. Teddy Henfrey. No significant crimes had been reported since late February, but Mr. Gould, a probationary assistant at the National School, elaborated on the idea, suggesting that the stranger was an Anarchist in hiding, preparing explosives. He decided to conduct his own investigations, which mostly involved staring intently at the stranger whenever they crossed paths or asking people who had never seen him leading questions. But he uncovered nothing.

Another group of villagers followed Mr. Fearenside’s lead, either accepting the criminal theory or some variation of it. For instance, Silas Durgan claimed that “if he showed up at fairs, he’d make a fortune,” and, being a bit of a theologian, likened the stranger to the man with the one talent. Yet another perspective viewed the stranger as a harmless lunatic, which conveniently explained everything.

Between these main viewpoints, there were those who wavered and compromised. The people of Sussex had few superstitions, and it wasn’t until the events of early April that whispers of the supernatural began to circulate in the village. Even then, it was mostly among the women.

People in Iping, for the most part, didn’t like him. His irritability, while it might have made sense to someone used to the hustle and bustle of city life, was bewildering to these quiet villagers in Sussex. They often caught glimpses of his frantic gestures, or saw him racing around corners after dark, and they couldn’t understand his harsh dismissal of any attempts at conversation. His preference for solitude led him to shut doors, draw blinds, and snuff out candles, which only added to the mystery surrounding him. As he walked through the village, people would step aside, and once he passed, the younger ones would mimic his strange demeanor, pulling up their coat collars and lowering their hat brims as they nervously trailed after him.

At that time, a song called “The Bogey Man” was quite popular. Miss Statchell performed it at a school concert to raise money for church lamps, and afterward, whenever a few villagers gathered and the stranger appeared, someone would whistle a few notes of the tune, either sharp or flat. Even the late-night children would call out “Bogey Man!” after him, running off with a mix of fear and excitement.

Dr. Cuss, the village doctor, was consumed by curiosity. The bandages wrapped around the stranger piqued his professional interest, and the rumors of all the bottles he had stirred his envy. Throughout April and May, he longed for a chance to speak to the man, and finally, around Whitsun, he couldn’t hold back any longer. He decided to use the village nurse subscription list as an excuse to approach him. To his surprise, Mr. Hall didn’t even know the stranger’s name.

“He did give a name,” Mrs. Hall insisted, though this was far from the truth. “I just didn’t catch it.” She thought it was ridiculous not to know the man’s name.

Cuss knocked on the parlor door and stepped inside. He heard a muffled curse from within. “Sorry to intrude,” he said, and then the door closed, cutting Mrs. Hall off from the conversation.

For the next ten minutes, she could hear the low murmur of voices, followed by a gasp of surprise, the sound of feet shuffling, a chair being pushed aside, a burst of laughter, and then quick footsteps heading toward the door. Cuss emerged, his face pale and his eyes wide with shock. He didn’t even glance at her as he hurried past and down the steps, his hat clutched in his hand. She stood behind the door, staring at the open parlor door, when she heard the stranger chuckling softly. His footsteps crossed the room, but she couldn’t see his face from where she stood. The parlor door slammed shut, and silence fell over the house once more.

Cuss made his way up the village to visit Bunting, the vicar. “Am I going crazy?” he blurted out as he entered the vicar’s shabby little study. “Do I look insane?”

“What’s going on?” the vicar asked, setting aside the ammonite he had been studying for his upcoming sermon.

“That guy at the inn—”

“Well?”

“Just give me something to drink,” Cuss said, sinking into a chair.

After a glass of cheap sherry—the only drink the vicar had on hand—Cuss steadied his nerves and recounted the strange encounter he had just had. “I walked in,” he panted, “and started asking about the Nurse Fund. He had his hands shoved in his pockets when I came in, and he plopped down in his chair. He sniffed a lot. I mentioned I’d heard he was interested in scientific matters. He said yes, still sniffing. Clearly, he had caught a nasty cold. No surprise, dressed like that! I kept my eyes peeled while I talked about the nurse idea. There were bottles and test tubes everywhere, and the smell of evening primrose filled the air. I asked if he would contribute, and he said he’d think about it. I pressed him directly, asking if he was doing research. He confirmed it, but then he got really annoyed. ‘A damnable long research,’ he said, blowing off steam. I was taken aback. Then he opened up about his grievances. He had been given a prescription—something very valuable, but he wouldn’t say for what. Was it medical? ‘Damn you! What are you fishing for?’ I apologized, and he gave me a haughty sniff. He continued, saying he’d read it—five ingredients. He put it down and turned his head. A draft from the window lifted the paper, and I saw it flicker. He was working in a room with an open fireplace, and I watched as the prescription caught fire and shot up the chimney. Just then, to illustrate his story, he waved his arm.”

“Well?”

“No hand—just an empty sleeve. My God, I thought, that’s a deformity! He must have a prosthetic arm or something and just took it off. But then I wondered, what keeps that sleeve up and open if there’s nothing in it? I could see right down to the elbow, and there was a glimmer of light shining through a tear in the fabric. ‘Good God!’ I exclaimed.

Then he stopped and stared at me through those dark goggles of his, then back at his sleeve.

“Well?”

“That’s it. He didn’t say a word; just glared at me and quickly shoved his sleeve back into his pocket. ‘I was saying,’ he continued, ‘that the prescription was burning, wasn’t I?’ He coughed, as if to prompt me. ‘How the hell,’ I asked, ‘can you move an empty sleeve like that?’ ‘Empty sleeve?’ ‘Yes,’ I replied, ‘an empty sleeve.’

“‘So it’s an empty sleeve, is it? You saw it was empty?’ He stood up immediately. I stood up too. He took three slow steps toward me and stood close, sniffing like a snake. I didn’t flinch, even though that bandaged stump and those goggles were enough to unnerve anyone coming at you like that.

“‘You said it was an empty sleeve?’ he pressed. ‘Of course,’ I replied. When a bold man, without glasses, starts scratching his head while staring at you, it’s unsettling. Then, very quietly, he pulled his sleeve out of his pocket again and raised his arm toward me as if to show it once more. He did it slowly. I stared at it, feeling like an eternity passed. ‘Well?’ I said, clearing my throat, ‘there’s nothing in it.’

“I had to say something. I was starting to feel scared. I could see straight down it. He extended it toward me, slowly, slowly—just like that—until the cuff was just inches from my face. It was a strange sight, an empty sleeve coming at me like that! And then—”

“Well?”

“Something—something that felt exactly like a finger and thumb—nipped my nose.”

Bunting burst into laughter.

“There was nothing there!” Cuss shouted, his voice rising in a shriek at the “there.” “It’s easy for you to laugh, but I was so startled that I hit his cuff hard, turned around, and bolted out of the room—I left him there—”

Cuss paused, his panic unmistakable. He turned helplessly and poured himself another glass of the vicar’s rather poor sherry. “When I hit his cuff,” Cuss said, “it felt just like hitting an arm. And there wasn’t an arm! Not even a trace of one!”

Mr. Bunting pondered this. He eyed Cuss with suspicion. “That’s quite a story,” he said, looking very wise and serious. “It’s really,” Mr. Bunting added with a grave tone, “a most remarkable story.”