All this came to me in a momentary flash of perception, for immediately my attention was riveted upon a figure hunched up on a dilapidated sofa on the opposite side of the room.  It was that of a big man, bearded and very heavily built, but whose face was scarred as by years of suffering, and whose eyes confirmed the story indicated by the smell of stale spirits with which the air of the room was laden.  A nearly empty bottle stood on a table at his elbow, a glass beside it, and a pipe lay in a saucer full of ashes near the glass.

As we entered, the glazed eyes of the man opened widely and he clutched at the table with big red hands, leaning forward and staring horribly.

Save for this derelict figure and some few dirty utensils and scattered garments which indicated that the apartment was used both as sleeping and living room, there was so little of interest in the place that automatically my wandering gaze strayed from the figure on the sofa to a large oil painting, unframed, which rested upon the mantelpiece above the dirty grate, in which the fire had become extinguished.

I uttered a stifled exclamation.  It was “A Dream at Dawn”—­ evidently the original painting!

On the left of it, from a nail in the wall, hung a violin and bow, and on the right stood a sort of cylindrical glass case or closed jar, upon a wooden base.

From the moment that I perceived the contents of this glass case a sense of fantasy claimed me, and I ceased to know where reality ended and mirage began.

It contained a tiny and perfect figure of a man.  He was arrayed in a beautifully fitting dress-suit such as a doll might have worn, and he was posed as if in the act of playing a violin, although no violin was present.  At the elfin black hair and Mephistophelian face of this horrible, wonderful image, I stared fascinatedly.

I looked and looked at the dwarfed figure of. . .  Tcheriapin!

All these impressions came to me in the space of a few hectic moments, when in upon my mental tumult intruded a husky whisper from the man on the sofa.

“Kreener!” he said.  “Kreener!”

At the sound of that name, and because of the way in which it was pronounced, I felt my blood running cold.  The speaker was staring straight at my companion.

I clutched at the open door.  I felt that there was still some crowning horror to come.  I wanted to escape from that reeking room, but my muscles refused to obey me, and there I stood while: 

“Kreener!” repeated the husky voice, and I saw that the speaker was rising unsteadily to his feet.

“You have brought him again.  Why have you brought him again?  He will play.  He will play me a step nearer to Hell.”

“Brace yourself, Colquhoun,” said the voice of my companion.  “Brace yourself.”

“Take him awa’!” came in a sudden frenzied shriek.  “Take him awa’!  He’s there at your elbow, Kreener, mockin’ me, and pointing to that damned violin.”