Diary of a Drug Fiend

64 The Diary of a Drug Fiend disappeared from the school. Very few people knew why, and those who did pretended not to. But he never went to Oxford. I had only heard of the man once since. It was in the club. His name came up in connection with some vague gossip about some crooked financial affair. I had it in my mind, vaguely enough, that that must have had something to do with the trouble at school. He was not the sort of boy to be expelled for any of the ordinary reasons. It was certainly something to do with the subtlety of his intellect. To tell you the truth, he had been a sort of hero of mine at school. He possessed all the qualities I most admired—and lacked—in their fullest expansion. I had known him very slightly ; but his disappearance had been a great shock. It had stuck in my mind when many more important things had left no trace. He had hardly changed from when I had last seen him. Of middle height, he had a long and rather narrow face. There was a touch of the ecclesiastic in his expression. His eyes were small and gray; he had a trick of blinking. The nose was long and beaked like Wellington’s; the mouth was thin and tense; the skin was fresh and rosy. He had not developed even the tiniest wrinkle. He kept the old uneasy nervous movement which had been so singular in him as a boy. One would have said that he was constantly on the alert, expecting something to happen, and yet the last thing that any one could have said about him was that he was ill at ease. He possessed superb confidence. Before I had finished recognising him, he had shaken hands with me and was prattling about the old days. “T hear you’re Sir Peter now, by the way,” he said. “Good for you. I always picked you for a winner.” “T think I’ve met you,” interrupted Lou. “ Surely, it’s Mr. Feccles.”’ “Oh, yes, I remember you quite well. Miss Laleham, isn’t it?”