“Certainly, Mr. Klaw,” I replied, trying to keep a note of surprise from my voice; “Hassett and I are old friends. I have only to mention your name and you will be heartily welcomed.” That Isis would be welcome I did not doubt, but, mentally picturing the eccentric figure of Moris Klaw at such a gathering, I could not deny that it seemed out of place. However, I doubted not that some purpose deeper than amusement underlay the request, and the matter was arranged accordingly. Moris Klaw called for me in a Daimler, wherein, queenly, Isis reclined in an ermine cloak. I think I had never before become so fully conscious of the mystery enshrouding the life of this oddly assorted pair as I did during that drive to Chelsea. Who, I asked myself, was Moris Klaw, the inscrutable genius who so gladly offered his services to the guardians of law and order?--who dealt in beasts and birds and reptiles, old furniture and fusty books?--who lived in one of the most unsavoury quarters of London?--whose daughter was an unchallenged beauty, possessed of clothes and jewels which never were purchased out of the profits of the Wapping business? My reflections, however, availed me nothing. Arrived at Chelsea, we met our host in the lounge hall of the house, and, introductions being over and the beauty of Isis having annoyed every other pretty woman in the place, I presently found myself escorting Morris Klaw’s daughter through the garden to the studio, whither some of the party had preceded us. We paused for a moment and looked in at the window. A group of a dozen people or so gathered around the piano at the farther end of the place; but, nearer to us, seated in a high armchair before the blazing fire and caressing a black cat which rested upon his knee, was a strange-looking, gaunt-faced man. Upon his harsh features the dancing firelight painted odd shadows, so that at one moment it was a smiling, benevolent face, and, in the next, the face of a devil. It was a mere illusion, of course, but when I turned again to Isis and we proceeded toward the door, I saw her biting her lip in sudden agitation, and: “What is the matter?” I asked. “Nothing,” she replied--“but what a queer-looking man that was sitting before the fire.” Presently we met him, however, as well as the black cat (which proved to belong to Len Hassett). He was Serg Skobolov, a Russian pianist whose reputation was growing by leaps and bounds. Upon Isis his curious small eyes rested greedily; and that she was repelled, the girl was unable to disguise. In due course, when the merriment was in full swing, there were songs, and a certain amount of dancing took place; and then melting at the right moment to the entreaties of Hassett, Skobolov agreed to play. “You know,” said a lady journalist who was sitting on the floor near me, “Skobolov has composed numerous works but not one of them is published.”