d never count
with certainty upon meeting them, there was one who never failed to be
present when such an informal reception was held. Of him I must speak at
greater length, for a reason which will shortly appear.

Andrews was the name by which he was known to the circles in which he
moved. No one, from Sir John Tennier, the fashionable portrait painter,
to Kruski, of the Russian ballet, disputed Andrews's right to be counted
one of the elect. Yet it was known, nor did he trouble to hide the fact,
that Andrews was employed at a large printing works in South London,
designing advertisements. He was a great, red-bearded, unkempt Scotsman,
and only once can I remember to have seen him strictly sober; but to
hear him talk about painters and painting in his thick Caledonian accent
was to look into the soul of an artist.

He was as sour as an unripe grape-fruit, cynical, embittered, a man
savagely disappointed with life and the world; and tragedy was written
all over him. If anyone knew the secret of his wasted life it was Dr.
Kreener, and Dr. Kreener was a reliquary of so many secrets that this
one was safe as if the grave had swallowed it.

One Sunday Tcheriapin joined the party. That he would gravitate there
sooner or later was inevitable, for the laboratory in the garden was
a Kaaba to which all such spirits made at least one pilgrimage. He had
just set musical London on fire with his barbaric playing, and already
those stories to which I have referred were creeping into circulation.

Although Dr. Kreener never expected anything of his guests beyond an
interchange of ideas, it was a fact that the laboratory contained
an almost unique collection of pencil and charcoal studies by famous
artists, done upon the spot; of statuettes in wax, putty, soap and other
extemporized materials, by the newest sculptors. While often enough
from the drawing room which opened upon the other end of the garden had
issued the strains of masterly piano-playing, and it was no uncommon
thing for little groups to gather in the neighbouring road to listen,
gratis, to the voice of some great vocalist.

From the first moment of their meeting an intense antagonism sprang up
between Tcheriapin and Andrews. Neither troubled very much to veil it.
In Tcheriapin it found expression in covert sneers and sidelong glances,
while the big, lion-maned Scotsman snorted open contempt of the Eurasian
violinist. However, what I was about to say was that Tcheriap