The swing of the shoulders, the aggressive turn of the head, were vaguely familiar, and while I was searching my memory and endeavouring to obtain a view of the man's face, he stared across in my direction.
It was Adderley.
He looked even more debauched than I remembered him, for whereas in Singapore he had had a tanned skin, now he looked unhealthily pallid and blotchy. He raised his hand, and:
“Knox!” he cried, and ran across to greet me.
His boisterous manner and a sort of coarse geniality which he possessed had made him popular with a certain set in former days, but I, who knew that this geniality was forced, and assumed to conceal a sort of appalling animalism, had never been deceived by it. Most people found Adderley out sooner or later, but I had detected the man's true nature from the very beginning. His eyes alone were danger signals for any amateur psychologist. However, I greeted him civilly enough:
“Bless my soul, you are looking as fit as a fiddle!” he cried. “Where have you been, and what have you been doing since I saw you last?”
“Nothing much,” I replied, “beyond trying to settle down in a reformed world.”
“Reformed world!” echoed Adderley. “More like a ruined world it has seemed to me.”
He laughed loudly. That he had already explored several bottles was palpable.
We were silent for a while, mentally weighing one another up, as it were. Then: