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Updated: June 27, 2025
Kreener had invented a process for reducing any form of plant life to this condition?" "Almost any form," was the guarded reply. "And some forms of animal life." "What!" "If you like" the stranger leaned forward and grasped my arm "I will tell you the story of Dr. Kreener's last experiment." I was now intensely interested.
He mixed a drink for Andrews and himself. His quiet, decisive manner had had its effect, and Andrews was now more composed. Indeed, he seemed to be in a half-dazed condition; but he persistently kept his back turned to the crouching figure propped up against the settee. "If you think you can follow me," said Dr. Kreener abruptly, "I will show you the result of a recent experiment."
Kreener had not been a great chemist he would have been a great painter, or perhaps a politician, or even a poet. Triumph was his birthright, and the fruits for which lesser men reached out in vain fell ripe into his hands. The favourite meeting-place for these oddly assorted boon companions was the doctor's laboratory, which was divided from the house by a moderately large garden.
Kreener, speaking very deliberately, "which I have never before had a suitable opportunity of attempting. Of its result I am personally confident, but science always demands proof." His voice rang now with a note of repressed excitement.
We found him in the dining room, a nearly empty whisky-bottle beside him. "I had to gang awa'," he explained thickly; "he was temptin' me to murder him. I should ha' had to do it if I had stayed. Damn his hell-music." Tcheriapin revisited Dr. Kreener on many occasions afterward, although for a long time he did not bring his violin again.
There was a covert meaning in the words a fact which penetrated even to the dulled intelligence of the Scotsman, for he glanced up haggardly at his friend. "You ought to be glad," repeated Dr. Kreener. Turning, he walked to the laboratory door and locked it. He next lowered all the blinds. "I pray that we have not been observed," he said, "but we must chance it."
"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.
"There is one poor fool in the world," he said, shrugging his slight shoulders, "who never knew how badly he should hate me. Ha! ha! of him I shall tell you. Do you remember, my friends, some few years ago, a picture that was published in Paris and London? Everybody bought it; everybody said: 'He is a made man, this fellow who can paint so fine." "To what picture do you refer?" asked Dr. Kreener.
Kreener never expected anything of his guests beyond an interchange of ideas, it was a fact that the laboratory contained an almost unique collection of pencil and charcoal studies by famous artists, done upon the spot; of statuettes in wax, putty, soap and other extemporized materials, by the newest sculptors.
Its weight was extraordinary. "I am learning new things about this process every day," continued Dr. Kreener, placing the little figure upon a table. "For instance, while it seems to operate uniformly upon vegetable matter, there are curious modifications when one applies it to animal and mineral substances.
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