“Can you believe that a man could be so stupid? He never knew of my existence, this big, red booby. He never knew that I existed until--until his 'dream' had fled--with me! In a week we were in Paris, that dream-girl and I--in a month we had quarrelled. I always end these matters with a quarrel; it makes the complete finish. She struck me in the face--and I laughed. She turned and went away. We were tired of one another. “Ah!” Again he airily kissed his hand. “There were others after I had gone. I heard for a time. But her memory is like a rose, fresh and fair and sweet. I am glad I can remember her so, and not as she afterward became. That is the art of love. She killed herself with absinthe, my friends. She died in Marseilles in the first year of the great war.” Thus far Tcheriapin had proceeded, and was in the act of airily flicking ash upon the floor, when, uttering a sound which I can only describe as a roar, Andrews hurled himself upon the smiling violinist. His great red hands clutching Tcheriapin's throat, the insane Scotsman, for insane he was at that moment, forced the other back upon the settee from which he had half arisen. In vain I sought to drag him away from the writhing body, but I doubt that any man could have relaxed that deadly grip. Tcheriapin's eyes protruded hideously and his tongue lolled forth from his mouth. One could hear the breath whistling through his nostrils as Andrews silently, deliberately, squeezed the life out of him. It all occupied only a few minutes, and then Andrews, slowly opening his rigidly crooked fingers, stood panting and looking down at the distorted face of the dead man. For once in his life the Scotsman was sober, and turning to Dr. Kreener: “I have waited seven long years for this,” he said, “and I'll hang wi' contentment.” I can never forget the ensuing moments, in which, amid a horrible silence broken only by the ticking of a clock and the heavy breathing of Colquhoun (so long known to us as Andrews) we stood watching the contorted body on the settee. And as we watched, slowly the rigid limbs began to relax, and Tcheriapin slid gently on to the floor, collapsing there with a soft thud, where he squatted like some hideous Buddha, resting back against the cushions, one spectral yellow hand upraised, the fingers still clutching a big gold tassel. Andrews (for so I always think of him) was seized with a violent fit of trembling, and he dropped into the chair, muttering to himself and looking down wild-eyed at his twitching fingers. Then he began to laugh, high-pitched laughter, in little short peals. “Here!” cried the doctor sharply. “Drop that!” Crossing to Andrews, he grasped him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. The laughter ceased, and: “Send for the police,” said Andrews in a queer, shaky voice. “Dinna fear but I'm ready. I'm only sorry it happened here.” “You ought to be glad,” said Dr. Kreener.