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don't know is the exact moment at which he transferred it, how, and to whom. We have not been able to locate the object anywhere. Now ask your questions, gentlemen.”
    Trumbull said, “Let's try this one at a time. Mario?”
    Gonzalo thought a moment and then shrugged. Twiddling his brandy glass between thumb and forefinger, he said, “What did this object—as you call it—look like?”
    “About an inch across and flat,” said Bunsen. “It had a metallic shine so it was easy to see. It was too large to swallow easily; heavy enough to make a noise if it were dropped; too thick to place in a crack; too heavy to stick easily to anything; not iron so there could be no tricks with magnets. The object, as I still call it, was carefully designed to make the task of transferring, or hiding, difficult.”
    “But what did he do in the restaurant? He ate a meal, I suppose?” said Gonzalo.
    “He ate a meal as he always did.”
    “Was it a fancy restaurant?”
    “A fairly elaborate one. He ate there regularly.”
    “I mean, there's nothing phony about the restaurant?”
    “Not as far as we know, although in general that is not enough to allow us to display a blind trust in it and, believe me, we don't.”
    “Who was with him at the meal?”
    “No one.” Bunsen shook his head gravely. “He ate alone. That was his custom. He signed the check when he was through, as he always did. He had an account in the restaurant, you see. Then he left, took a taxi, and after a while he was stopped and taken into custody. The object was no longer in his possession.”
    “Wait, now,” said Gonzalo, his eyes narrowing. “You say he signed the check. What was it he wrote? Would you know?”
    “We know quite well. We have the check. He added a tip —quite the normal amount and we could find nothing wrong with that—and signed his name. That's all. Nothing more. He used the waiter's pencil and returned that pencil. Nor did he pass along anything else, and the waiter did not escape scrutiny, I assure you.”
    Gonzalo said, “I pass.”
    Drake, stubbing out his cigarette, lifted a gray eyebrow as Trumbull's finger gestured at him. “I suppose Smith was kept under close surveillance while he was in the restaurant.”
    “As close as though he were a coat and we were the lining. We had two men in that restaurant, each at a table near him. They were trained men and capable ones and their entire task was to note every movement he made. He could not scratch himself without being noticed. He couldn't fumble at a button, crook a finger, shift a leg, or raise a buttock without being noted.”
    “Did he go to the men's room at any time?”
    “No, he did not. If he had, we would have managed to follow.”
    “Were you there yourself, Mr. Bunsen?”
    “I? No, I'm no good for that kind of surveillance. I'm too noticeable. What's needed to keep a man in view is a shadow with a good, gray face and an overwhelming lack of distinction in form and feature. I'm too big, too broad; I stand out.”
    Drake nodded. “Do you suppose Smith knew he was being watched?” .
    “He may have. People in his line of work don't last long if they don't assume at every moment that they might be watched. In fact, to be truthful, at one point I got a clear impression He felt he was being watched. I was across the street at a window, with a pair of binoculars. I could see him come out from the corner entrance of the restaurant.
    “The doorman held the taxi door open for him and Smith paused for just a minute. He looked about him as though trying to identify those who might be watching. And he smiled, a tight smile, not amusement, it seemed to me, as much as bravado. At that moment, I was sure we had lost And, as it turned out, we had.”
    “And you really are sure,” said Drake, “that he had it on him when he walked into the restaurant and that he didn't have it on him when he left.”
    “We really are sure. When he walked in, there was what amounted to a