I had been asked to collect among old Carthusians for one of those endless "testimonials" which pursue one through life, and are, perhaps, the worst Nemesis which follows the crime of having wasted one's youth at a public school: a testimonial for a retiring master, or professional cricketer, or washerwoman, or something; and in the course of my duties as collector it was quite natural that I should call upon all my fellow-victims.

So I went to his rooms in Staples Inn and reintroduced myself.
Reggie Nettlecraft had grown up into an unwholesome, spotty, indeterminate young man, with a speckled necktie, and cuffs of which he was inordinately proud, and which he insisted on "flashing" every second minute.

He was also evidently self-satisfied; which was odd, for I have seldom seen anyone who afforded less cause for rational satisfaction.
"Hullo," he said, when I told him my name.

"So it's you, is it, Cumberledge ?" He glanced at my card.

"St.Nathaniel's Hospital! What rot! Why, blow me tight if you haven't turned sawbones!" "That is my profession," I answered, unashamed.