You probably know about the last phase of Grimshaw’s career—­who doesn’t?  There is something fascinating about the escapades of a famous man, but when he happens also to be a great poet, we cannot forget his very human sins—­in them he is akin to us.

Not all you have heard and read about Grimshaw’s career is true.  But the best you can say of him is bad enough.  He squandered his own fortune first—­on Esther Levenson and the production of “The Sunken City”—­and then stole ruthlessly from Dagmar; that is, until she found legal ways to put a stop to it.  We had passed into Edward’s reign and the decadence which ended in the war had already set in—­Grimshaw was the last of the “pomegranate school,” the first of the bolder, more sinister futurists.  A frank hedonist.  An intellectual voluptuary.  He set the pace, and a whole tribe of idolaters and imitators panted at his heels.  They copied his yellow waistcoats, his chrysanthemums, his eye-glass, his bellow.  Nice young men, otherwise sane, let their hair grow long like their idol’s and professed themselves unbelievers.  Unbelievers in what?  God save us!  Ten years later most of them were wading through the mud of Flanders, believing something pretty definite——­

One night I was called to the telephone by the Grimshaws’ physician.  I’ll tell you his name, because he has a lot to do with the rest of the story—­Doctor Waram, Douglas Waram—­an Australian.

“Grimshaw has murdered a man,” he said briefly.  “I want you to help me.  Come to Cheyne Walk.  Take a cab.  Hurry.”

Of course I went, with a very clear vision of the future of Dagmar, Lady Cooper, to occupy my thoughts during that lurching drive through the slippery streets.  I knew that she was at Broadenham, holding up her head in seclusion.

Grimshaw’s house was one of a row of red brick buildings not far from the river.  Doctor Waram himself opened the door to me.

“I say, this is an awful mess,” he said, in a shocked voice.  “The woman sent for me—­Levenson, that actress.  There’s some mystery.  A man dead—­his head knocked in.  And Grimshaw sound asleep.  It may be hysterical, but I can’t wake him.  Have a look before I get the police.”

I followed him into the studio, the famous Pompeian room, on the second floor.  I shall never forget the frozen immobility of the three actors in the tragedy.  Esther Levenson, wrapped in peacock-blue scarves, stood upright before the black mantel, her hands crossed on her breast.  Cecil Grimshaw was lying full length on a brick-red satin couch, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.  The dead man sprawled on the floor, face down, between them.  Two lamps made of sapphire glass swung from the gilded ceiling....  Bowls of perfumed, waxen flowers.  A silver statuette of a nude girl.  A tessellated floor strewn with rugs.  Orange trees in tubs.  Cigarette smoke hanging motionless in the still, overheated air....

I stooped over the dead man.  “Who is he?”