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 depicted. “And the fellow who painted her!--the man with the barbarous name! Bah! he was big--as big as our Mr. Andrews--and ugly--pooh! uglier than he! A moon-face, with cropped skull like a prize-fighter and no soul. But, yes, he could paint. 'A Dream at Dawn' was genius--yes, some soul he must have had. “He could paint, dear friends, but he could not love. Him I counted as--puff!” He blew imaginary down into space. “Her I sought out, and presently found. She told me, in those sweet stolen rambles along the shore, when the moonlight made her look like a Madonna, that she was his inspiration--his art--his life. And she wept; she wept, and I kissed her tears away. “To please her I waited until 'A Dream at Dawn' was finished. With the finish of the picture, finished also his dream of dawn--the moon-faced one's.” Tcheriapin laughed, and lighted a fresh cigarette.