“Don’t drink your wine.  The man with you has just put something into it.”

I folded this up, and beckoned to one of the waiters who was standing by the door.  He came forward at once.

“Do you want to earn half a sovereign?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” he answered, without the faintest air of surprise.

“Listen to me, then,” I said, “and whatever you do don’t look round.  In the farther corner behind us there’s a gentleman with an eyeglass dining with another man.  Go up the centre of the room and give him this note.  If he asks you who it’s from, say some one handed it you in the hall and told you to deliver it.  Then go and get my bill and bring it me here.”

The waiter bowed, and taking the note departed on his errand, as casually as though I had instructed him to fetch me a liqueur.  All the time I had been speaking I had kept a watchful eye on the mirror, and as far as I could tell neither of the two men had noticed our conversation.  They were talking and laughing, the man I had sent the message to lightly fingering the stem of his wine-glass, and blowing thin spirals of cigarette smoke into the air.  Even as I looked he raised the glass, and for one harrowing second I thought I was too late.  Then, like a messenger from the gods, the waiter suddenly appeared from behind one of the pillars and handed him my note on a small silver tray.

He took it casually with his left hand; at the same time setting down his wine-glass on the table.  I saw him make an excuse to his host, and then open it and read it.  I don’t know exactly what I had expected him to do next, but the result was certainly surprising.  Instead of showing any amazement or even questioning the waiter, he made some laughing remark to his companion, and putting his hand in his pocket pulled out a small leather case from which he extracted a card.

Bending over the table he wrote two or three words in pencil, and handed it to the waiter.  As he did so the edge of his sleeve just caught the wine-glass.  I saw the other man start up and stretch out his hand, but he was too late to save it.  Over it went, breaking into pieces against one of the plates, and spilling the wine all across the table-cloth.

It was done so neatly that I could almost have sworn it was an accident.  Indeed the exclamation of annoyance with which the culprit greeted his handiwork sounded so perfectly genuine that if I hadn’t known what was in the note I should have been completely deceived.  I saw the waiter step forward and dab hurriedly at the stain with a napkin, while the author of the damage, coolly pulling up another glass, helped himself to a fresh supply from the bottle.  A more beautifully carried out little bit of acting it has never been my good luck to witness.

If the man with the scar suspected anything (which I don’t think he did) he was at least intelligent enough to keep the fact to himself.  He laughed heartily over the contretemps, and taking out his cigar-case offered his companion a choice of the contents.  I saw the latter shake his head, raising his half-finished cigarette as much as to indicate his preference for that branch of smoking.  It struck me, however, that his refusal was possibly dictated by other motives.