“No, señor,” said the other, as Appleby had expected. “Since the war makes pesetas scarce one drinks the thin red wine and caña here. Still, I have a few bottles with the seal on.” Appleby laughed. “Well,” he said, “as it has been observed, sugar is dear, and Vermouth is a wine I have a liking for. It is conceivable that these gentlemen would taste it with me.” The men appeared quite willing, and one of them brought out a handful of coarse maize‐husk cigarettes when the host laid down the bottle with the white Savoy cross upon it and a few little glasses. “It is not the tobacco the senor usually smokes, but his cigar has gone out, and one offers what he has with the good will,” he said. The man was clearly a peon, a day laborer, but Appleby fancied his manner could not have been improved upon, for it was free alike from undue deference or any assertion of equality. He took one of the cigarettes, and when he had handed round the little glasses sat with his face towards the door. The light from it, as he was pleased to notice, fell right across the narrow street, and he sat with his back to it. He had also not long to wait, for a patter of footsteps flung back by the white walls grew louder, and Appleby noticed that while they had rung sharp and decided they appeared to slacken as the man approached the wine‐shop. This appeared significant, since it suggested that the man did not wish to cross the stream of light. It was, however, evident that he must either stop or pass through it, and in another moment Appleby saw him. There was nothing especially noticeable about him except that the broad felt hat was pulled down a trifle lower than seemed necessary, and Appleby wondered if his suspicions were causeless, until the man turned his head a trifle. The movement was almost imperceptible, but Appleby felt that the dark eyes had rested on him a moment. Then as the stranger passed on he saw one of the men in the wine‐shop glance at his companion, who made a little gesture of comprehension. It was, however a few moments later, and there was once more silence in the shadowy street when he turned to Appleby. “It is getting late, señor,” he said significantly. “You sleep at the ‘Four Nations’?” “No,” said Appleby, who wondered if this was intended as a hint. “Still, I am going there.” The peon, he fancied, glanced at the landlord. “Then it would perhaps be better to go round by the calle Obispo.” Appleby reflected a moment, for he fancied there was a meaning in this, but he knew the calle Obispo would be almost deserted at that hour; while by going through the carniceria he would shorten the distance, and, at least, have the man he suspected in front of him. “I think I will go straight on,” he said. “Then you will find it convenient to walk in the middle of the road,” said the peon.