in on the
occasion of his first visit brought his violin.

It was there, amid these incongruous surroundings, that I first had my
spirit tortured by the strains of "The Black Mass."

There were five of us present, including Tcheriapin, and not one of the
four listeners was unaffected by the music. But the influence which
it exercised upon Andrews was so extraordinary as almost to reach the
phenomenal. He literally writhed in his chair, and finally interrupted
the performance by staggering rather than walking out of the laboratory.

I remember that he upset a jar of acid in his stumbling exit. It flowed
across the floor almost to the feet of Tcheriapin, and the way in which
the little black-haired man skipped, squealing, out of the path of the
corroding fluid was curiously like that of a startled rabbit. Order
was restored in due course, but we could not induce Tcheriapin to
play again, nor did Andrews return until the violinist had taken his
departure. We found him in the dining room, a nearly empty whisky-bottle
beside him.

"I had to gang awa'," he explained thickly; "he was temptin' me
to murder him. I should ha' had to do it if I had stayed. Damn his
hell-music."

Tcheriapin revisited Dr. Kreener on many occasions afterward, although
for a long time he did not bring his violin again. The doctor had
prevailed upon Andrews to tolerate the Eurasian's company, and I could
not help noticing how Tcheriapin skilfully and deliberately goaded the
Scotsman, seeming to take a fiendish delight in disagreeing with his
pet theories and in discussing any topic which he had found to be
distasteful to Andrews.

Chief among these was that sort of irreverent criticism of women in
which male parties so often indulge. Bitter cynic though he was, women
were sacred to Andrews. To speak disrespectfully of a woman in his
presence was like uttering blasphemy in the study of a cardinal.
Tcheriapin very quickly detected the Scotsman's weakness, and one night
he launched out into a series of amorous adventures which set Andrews
writhing as he had writhed under the torture of "The Black Mass."

On this occasion the party was only a small one, comprising myself, Dr.
Kreener, Andrews and Tcheriapin. I could feel the storm brewing, but was
powerless to check it. How presently it was to break in tragic violence
I could not foresee. Fate had not meant that I should foresee it.

Allowing for the free play of an extravagant artistic mind, Tche