Tcheriapin very quickly detected the Scotsman's
weakness, and one night he launched out into a series of amorous
adventures which set Andrews writhing as he had writhed under the
torture of "The Black Mass."
On this occasion the party was only a small one, comprising
myself, Dr. Kreener, Andrews and Tcheriapin. I could feel the
storm brewing, but was powerless to check it. How presently it
was to break in tragic violence I could not foresee. Fate had
not meant that I should foresee it.
Allowing for the free play of an extravagant artistic mind,
Tcheriapin'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.
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