Roland took her point. He had forgotten Bombito for the moment.
“For goodness' sake,” he said hastily, “don't go saying anything to Bombito to give him the idea that I'm trying to back out. Of course you can rely on me, and all that. That's all right.”
Maraquita's gaze softened. She raised her glass—they were lunching at the time—and put it to her lips.
“To the Savior of Paranoya!” she said.
“Beware!” whispered a voice in Roland's ear.
He turned with a start. A waiter was standing behind him, a small, dark, hairy man. He was looking into the middle distance with the abstracted air which waiters cultivate.
Roland stared at him, but he did not move.
That evening, returning to his flat, Roland was paralyzed by the sight of the word “Beware” scrawled across the mirror in his bedroom. It had apparently been done with a diamond. He rang the bell.
“Sir?” said the competent valet. (“Competent valets are in attendance at each of these flats.”—Advt.)
“Has any one been here since I left?”