"Curious theory."

"Do you secretly wiggle your toes inside your shoes when you eat something good?"

"I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to know."

"I can tell a lot about people by watching them eat — how they break their rolls, spoon their soup, cut their meat — even the way they chew."

"How do you size up the motley crew at Maus Haus?" Qwilleran asked.

"Interesting bunch. Hixie — she's got a lot of ginger, but she's getting panicky. She wants to get married in the worst way. Rosemary — she looks like a perfect lady, but don't be too sure. William — there's something weasely about that boy. He's not on the up-and-up. I can tell by the way he holds his fork. How do you size him up?"

"He's okay. Strikes me as an amusing kid, with a lot of healthy curiosity."

"Maybe I shouldn't tell you this," Sorrel confided, "because I don't want to stir up trouble, but I saw him letting himself into your apartment last night around eight o'clock, and he was looking kind of sneaky. Did you authorize him to go into your apartment?"

"How did you happen to see him?" Qwilleran wanted to know. "I thought you worked every night."

"Well, we had an accident in the kitchen, and some cocktail sauce got splashed on my shirt. I rushed home to change. . . Excuse me."

The restaurateur jumped up to seat a party of four, obviously tourists, while Qwilleran said to himself, Wouldn't a fastidious guy like Sorrel keep an extra shirt on hand at his place of business?

When the lamb was served, looking like the Rock of Gibraltar, Qwilleran remarked, "Do you know Joy Graham has left her husband?"

"No! When did that happen?"

"Early yesterday morning."

"Is she getting a divorce?"

"I don't know. She left no explanation, according to Dan. Just disappeared."

"I'm not surprised," Sorrel said. "I wouldn't blame her for unloading that ape. She's got a lot on the ball." His eyes glowed with appreciation. "I'm not strongly in favor of marriage myself. There are better ways to live. People marry, divorce, marry, divorce. It's not respectable."

"Did you ever watch her work with clay?"

"Me? No, sir! I've never set foot in that pottery. I took one look at all the dust and mud, and I knew that wasn't for me." His expression changed from one of distaste to one of approval. "So the little cabbage got the hell out, did she? Good for her!"

"It mystifies me why she'd depart in the middle of the night — in a violent rainstorm," Qwilleran said.

"Sure you don't want a baked potato with sour cream and chives?" his host urged.

"Thanks, no . . . And another mystery," Qwilleran went on, "is what happened to her cat. He was a neutered longhair, and they don't go roaming the courtryside in search of adventure; they sit around like sofa pillows. Do you have any ideas about what happened to that cat?"

Sorrel turned the color of borscht, and the veins in his temples seemed ready to burst.

"What's the matter?" Qwilleran asked in alarm. "Are you all right?"

The restaurateur mopped his brow with a gold napkin and lowered his voice. "I thought for a minute you were riding me — about that ugly story that's going around town." He gave the newsman a wary glance. "You haven't heard?"

Qwilleran shook his head.

"I'm being persecuted. A lot of dirty rumors are drifting around, and I don't mind telling you they're hurting my business. This place should be three-quarters full on Thursday night. Look at it! Six customers!"

"What kind of rumors?"

Sorrel winced. "That I use cat meat in the twelve-ounce chopped sirloin — and all that kind of rot. I could tell you worse, only it would spoil your dinner. Why don't they say I've got a gambling den in the back room? Why don't they say I keep girls upstairs? That I could take! But they're getting me where it hurts. Me! The guy who's known for keeping the cleanest kitchen in the city!"

"Any idea who could be circulating these rumors?" Qwilleran asked. "What would their motive be?"

Sorrel shrugged. "I don't know. Nobody seems to know. But it looks like a plot — especially after what happened Tuesday night."

"What happened?"

"My kitchen caught fire in the middle of the night. The police called me, and I came back downtown. It had to be arson. I don't leave grease around. I don't use any inflammable cleaners. . . Let me tell you: If anything happened to this place I'd crack up! I love this restaurant! The drapes cost forty dollars a yard. The carpet was custom-woven. Where did you ever see a carpet with a lamb chop design?"

Qwilleran had to admit the floor-covering was unusual. "Does anyone have a grudge against you — personally?"

"Me? I've got a million friends. Ask anybody. I couldn't think of an enemy if you paid me."

"How about your employees? Have you fired anyone who might be out for revenge?"

"No, I've always treated my people right, and they like me. Ask anyone of them. Ask Charlie." The waiter was bringing the coffee. "Charlie, do I treat you right? Tell this man — he's from the newspaper. Do I treat everyone right?"

"Yes, sir," said Charlie in a flat voice.

C Qwilleran declined Sorrel's offer of a dessert from the cart, which offered rum cream pie, banana Bavarian, pecan caramel custard, strawberry shortcake, and chocolate mousse, and he left the restaurant with the rest of his lamb wrapped in aluminum foil. He crossed River Road to hail a westbound taxi, but a bus came along and he climbed aboard.

It was one of the slow evening buses, and the leisurely speed and the drone of the engine were conducive to meditation. . . Why were women attracted to men with shiny bald heads? Max Sorrel was obviously attractive to the opposite sex. Had he incurred the enmity of a jealous rival? A jealous husband? . . . Had there been something between Joy and Max? If Dan resented it, would he have the wit to conduct a successful smear campaign against the Golden Lamb Chop? . . . Max had seemed surprised to learn of Joy's disappearance, but he was a good actor. He might have been lying. . . And how about the departure of Max's convertible at three in the morning? The restaurant fire would account for that — if the story of the fire happened to be true. Qwilleran made a mental note to verify it . . . As for William's surreptitious visit to Number Six, Qwilleran was not unduly concerned. The key rack in the kitchen was readily accessible, and the houseboy had probably wanted to see the cats. William had a healthy curiosity — a virtue, from a newsman's point of view. He also had brash nerve and a glib tongue and an easygoing personality. Qwilleran and Riker had been the same way when they were in their twenties, before their exuberance was curbed by disappointments and compromises and the old newsman's realization that there is never anything really new.

Wrapped in his thoughts, Qwilleran rode a mile beyond Maus Haus and had to wait for another slow bus traveling in the opposite direction.

When he finally arrived home, he found some changes in the Great Hall. The long dining table and the high-backed chairs had been moved aside, and the area was dotted with pedestals of various heights. In the center of the room a few railroad ties had been arranged on the floor to form a large square, and Dan Graham was down on hands and knees filling the square with pebbles. Alone in the vast hall, pushing the pebbles this way and that as if their placement mattered profoundly, he made a sad picture of insignificance, Qwilleran thought.

"How's it going, Mr. Graham?" he asked.

"Slow," said the potter. "It's not much fun doing the setup alone." He stood up and massaged his back, while viewing the pebbles critically. "My best pieces will be displayed on pedestals in this square. I'm gonna surprise this city, you can betcha boots."

"How soon are we going to see the new pots?"