Diary of a Drug Fiend

34 The Diary of a Drug Fiend He turned his back on her and looked me straight in the face. “It strikes you as pretty good stuff, Sir Peter,” he said, ‘‘and so it is. Tl have a dose myself to show there’s no ill-feeling.”’ He suited the action to the words. I had to admit that the man began to intrigue me. What was his game? “ T hear you're one of our best flying men, Sir Peter,” he went on. “T have flown a bit now and then,” I admitted. “Well, an aeroplane’s a pretty good means of travel, but unless you’re an expert, you're likely to make a pretty sticky finish.” “Thank you very much,” I said, nettled at his tone. “As it happens, I’m a medical student.” “Oh, that’s all right, then, of course.” He agreed with a courtesy which somehow cut deeper into my self-esteem than if he had openly challenged my competence. “In that case,’’ he continued, “I hope to arouse your professional interest in a case of what I think you will agree is something approaching indiscretion. My little friend here arrived to-night, or rather last night, full up to the neck with morphia. Dissatisfied with results, she swallowed a large dose of Anhalonium Lewinii, reckless of the pharmaceutical incompatability. Presumably to pass away the time, she has drunk an entire bottle of Grand Marnier Cordon Rouge; and now, feeling herself slightly indisposed, for some reason at which it would be presumptuous to guess, she is setting things right by an occasional indulgence in this pretty good stuff of yours.” He had turned away from me and was watching the girl intently. My glance followed his. I saw her deep blue skin fade to a dreadful pallor. She had lost her healthy colour; she suggested a piece of raw meat which is just beginning to go bad. ) I jumped to my feet. I knew instinctively that the