“It is nothing,” she said.
“No?” said Roland.
“We easily out-trick them, isn't it? You make a will leaving your money to the Cause, and then where are they, hein?”
It was one way of looking at it, but it brought little balm to Roland. He said so. Maraquita scanned his face keenly.
“You are not weakening, Roland?” she said. “You would not betray us now?”
“Well, of course, I don't know about betraying, you know, but still——. What I mean is——”
Maraquita's eyes seemed to shoot forth two flames.
“Take care,” she cried. “With me it is nothing, for I know that your heart is with Paranoya. But, if the others once had cause to suspect that your resolve was failing—ah! If Bombito——”
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
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