But at that moment, by the crookedest kind of luck, Peter entered with a tray of dishes.

He did not notice Rasta, and walked straight to the table and plumped down his burden on it.

The Turk had stepped aside at his entrance, and I saw by the look in his eyes that his suspicions had become a certainty.

For Peter, stripped to shirt and breeches, was the identical shabby little companion of the Rustchuk meeting.
I had never doubted Rasta's pluck.

He jumped for the door and had a pistol out in a trice pointing at my head.
'_Bonne fortune_,' he cried.