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getting less calories than you're expending—”
    Halsted, who knew very well that there was a certain softness in his abdominal region, muttered, “Oh well.”
    “But he's right, though,” said Bunsen, attacking the veal Marengo with gusto. “The diet drinks don't do me any good, but I like the taste. And I approve of looking at matters from the psychological angle.”
    Gonzalo, frowning, showed no signs of listening. When Henry bent over him to fill his coffee cup, he said, “What do you think, Henry? I mean about the taxi driver. Wasn't I right?”
    Henry said, “A gratuity is not quite a handout, Mr. Gonzalo. Personal service is customarily rewarded in a small way and to equate that with welfare is perhaps not quite just.”
    “You're just saying that because you—” began Gonzalo, and then he stopped abruptly.
    Henry said, “Yes, I benefit in the same way as the taxi driver does, but despite that I believe my statement to be correct.”
    Gonzalo threw himself back in his chair and chafed visibly.
    “Gentlemen,” said Trumbull, tapping his empty water glass with a fork, as Henry poured the liqueur, “This is an interesting occasion. Mr. Bunsen, who is my superior at the department, has a small puzzle to present to us. Let's see what we can make of it.” Again, he cast a quick glance at Henry, who had replaced the bottle on the sideboard and now stood placidly in the background.
    Bunsen, wiping his mouth with his napkin and wheezing slightly, also cast an anxious glance at Henry, and Trumbull leaned over to say, “Henry is one of us, Bob.”
    Trumbull went on, “Bob Bunsen is going to present merely the bare bones, to keep from distorting your view of the matter with unnecessary knowledge to begin with. I will remain out of it myself since I know too much about the matter.”
    Halsted leaned over to whisper to Drake, “I think it won't look good for Tom in the department if this doesn't work.”
    Drake shrugged, and mouthed rather than said, “He brought it on himself.”
    Bunsen, having adjusted the position of the breadbasket unnecessarily (he had earlier prevented Henry from removing it), began. “I will give you those bare bones of a story. There's a man. Call him Smith. We want him, but not just him. He's of little account. Clever at what he does, but of little account. If we get him, we learn nothing of importance and we warn off men of greater importance. If, however, we can use him to lead us to the men of greater importance—”
    “We all understand,” interrupted Avalon.
    Bunsen cleared his throat and made a new start. “Of course, we weren't sure about Smith to begin with. It seemed very likely, but we weren't sure. If he was indeed a link in the apparatus we were trying to break up, then we reasoned that he transferred the information at a restaurant he regularly frequented. Part of the reasoning was based on psychology, something I imagine Mr. Rubin would approve. Smith had the appearance and patina of a well-bred man about town who always did the correct social thing. On that basis, we—”
    He paused to think, then he said, “No, I'm getting off the subject and it's more than you need. We laid a trap for him.” For a moment he reddened as though in bashfulness and then he went on firmly, “I laid the trap and it was damned complicated. We managed to beat down his caution, never mind how, and we ended with Smith having in his hand something he had to transfer. It was a legitimate item and would be useful to them, but not too useful. It would be well worth the loss to us if we had gained what we hoped to gain.”
    Bunsen looked about him, clearing his throat, but no one made a sound. Henry, standing by the sideboard, seemed a quiet statue. Even the napkin he held did not move.
    Bunsen said, “Smith walked into the restaurant with the object on his person. After he left the restaurant he did not have the object on his person. We know therefore that he transferred the object. What we