On a Thursday of November, about three o’clock in the afternoon, a little man, driving a dray, stopped in the alley at the rear of the house. As he opened the back gate an old negro woman came down the steps from the kitchen and demanded to know what he wanted. The drayman asked if the lady of the house was in. The old negro answered that she was asleep at this hour and could not be seen. “That is good,” said the little man, “now there won’t be any row. I brought up some cases of wine which she ordered from our house last week and which the Boss told me to deliver at once, but I forgot it until to-day. Just let me put it in the cellar now, Auntie, and don’t say a word to the lady about it and she won’t ever know that it was not brought up on time.” The drayman stopped, fished a silver dollar out of his pocket, and gave it to the old negro. “There now, Auntie,” he said, “my job depends upon the lady not knowing about this wine; keep it mum.” “Dat’s all right, honey,” said the old servant, beaming like a May morning. “De cellar door is open, carry it all in and put it in de back part and nobody ain’t never going to know how long it has been in dar.” The old negro went back into the kitchen and the little man began to unload the dray. He carried in five wine cases and stowed them away in the back part of the cellar as the old woman had directed. Then, after having satisfied himself that no one was watching, he took from the dray two heavy paper sacks, presumably filled with flour, and a little bundle wrapped in an old newspaper; these he carefully hid behind the wine cases in the cellar. After awhile he closed the door, climbed on his dray, and drove off down the alley. About eight o’clock in the evening of the same day, a Mexican sailor dodged in the front gate and slipped down to the side of the house. He stopped by the window and tapped on it with his finger. In a moment a woman opened the door. She was tall, lithe, and splendidly proportioned, with a dark Spanish face and straight hair. The man stepped inside. The woman bolted the door and turned round. “Ah,” she said, smiling, “it is you, Senor? How good of you!” The man started. “Whom else did you expect?” he said quickly. “Oh!” laughed the woman, “perhaps the Archbishop.” “Nina!” said the man, in a broken voice that expressed love, humility, and reproach. His face was white under the black sunburn. For a moment the woman wavered. A shadow flitted over her eyes, then she stepped back. “No,” she said, “not yet.” The man walked across to the fire, sank down in a chair, and covered his face with his hands. The woman stepped up noiselessly behind him and leaned over the chair. The man was either in great agony or else he was a superb actor, for the muscles of his neck twitched violently and his shoulders trembled. “Oh,” he muttered, as though echoing his thoughts, “I can’t do it, I can’t!”