But suddenly he had opened them, and the next moment had sat up on his pillow. He had striven to draw his hand from mine. "Who are you?" he had suddenly demanded, not knowing me. I had come close to him. "You know me, Andriaovsky--Harrison?" I had asked sorrowfully. I had been on the point of repeating my name but suddenly, after holding my eyes for a moment with a look the profundity and familiarity of which I cannot express, he had broken into the most ghastly haunting laugh I have ever heard. "_Harrison?_" the words had broken throatily from him.... "_Oh yes; I know you!... You shall very soon know that I know you if... if..._" The cough and rattle had come as Maschka had rushed into the room. In ten seconds Andriaovsky had fallen back, dead. II That same evening I began to make notes for Andriaovsky's "Life." On the following day, the last of the fourth series of the _Martin Renards_ occupied me until I was thankful to get to bed. But thereafter I could call rather more of my time my own, and I began in good earnest to devote myself to the "Life." Maschka had spoken no more than the truth when she had said that of all men living none but I could write that "Life." His remaining behind in my Chelsea garret that evening after the others had left had been the beginning of a friendship that, barring that lapse of five years at the end, had been for twenty years one of completest intimacy. Whatever money there might or might not be in the book, I had seen _my_ opportunity in it--the opportunity to make it the vehicle for all the aspirations, faiths, enthusiasms, and exaltations we had shared; and I myself did not realise until I began to note them down one tithe of the subtle links and associations that had welded our souls together.