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?”