riapin's
career on his own showing had been that of a callous blackguard. I
began by being disgusted and ended by being fascinated, not by the
man's scandalous adventures, but by the scarcely human psychology of the
narrator.

From Warsaw to Budapesth, Shanghai to Paris, and Cairo to London he
passed, leaving ruin behind him with a smile--airily flicking cigarette
ash upon the floor to indicate the termination of each "episode."

Andrews watched him in a lowering way which I did not like at all. He
had ceased to snort his scorn; indeed, for ten minutes or so he had
uttered no word or sound; but there was something in the pose of his
ungainly body which strangely suggested that of a great dog preparing
to spring. Presently the violinist recalled what he termed a "charming
idyll of Normandy."

"There is one poor fool in the world," he said, shrugging his slight
shoulders, "who never knew how badly he should hate me. Ha! ha! of him
I shall tell you. Do you remember, my friends, some few years ago, a
picture that was published in Paris and London? Everybody bought it;
everybody said: 'He is a made man, this fellow who can paint so fine.'"

"To what picture do you refer?" asked Dr. Kreener.

"It was called 'A Dream at Dawn.'"

As he spoke the words I saw Andrews start forward, and Dr. Kreener
exchanged a swift glance with him. But the Scotsman, unseen by the
vainglorious half-caste, shook his head fiercely.

The picture to which Tcheriapin referred will, of course, be perfectly
familiar to you. It had phenomenal popularity some eight years ago.
Nothing was known of the painter--whose name was Colquhoun--and nothing
has been seen of his work since. The original painting was never sold,
and after a time this promising new artist was, of course, forgotten.

Presently Tcheriapin continued:

"It is the figure of a slender girl--ah! angels of grace!--what a
girl!" He kissed his hand rapturously. "She is posed bending gracefully
forward, and looking down at her own lovely reflection in the water.
It is a seashore, you remember, and the little ripples play about
her ankles. The first blush of the dawn robes her white body in a
transparent mantle of light. Ah! God's mercy! it was as she stood so, in
a little cove of Normandy, that I saw her!"

He paused, rolling his dark eyes; and I could hear Andrews's heavy
breathing; then:

"It was the 'new art'--the posing of the model not in a lighted studio,
but in the scene to be