Trial and Error by Anthony Berkeley

appeared embarrassed.
    â€œNo, I was waiting for—you.” The pause before the last word was very slight but it was perceptible.
    â€œThen ring.” Farroway spoke more drily than such a simple request appeared to warrant.
    There was a pause, which continued long enough to be awkward.
    Mr Todhunter was thinking that to have a son-in-law, Farroway must be married, and this therefore accounted for the feminine air of the room. But even so it seemed strange that a woman in the position of Farroway’s wife should have such appalling taste or indeed that Farroway should allow her to exercise it if she possessed it.
    Farroway, who had been staring at the carpet, looked up at his son-in-law—literally, for the latter topped him by four inches or more, a blond, curly haired young cross between Apollo and a rowing blue, quite improperly handsome, thought Mr Todhunter.
    â€œDid Jean say when she’d be in?”
    The young man did not alter his abstracted gaze towards the window. “I haven’t seen her,” he said shortly. He was leaning back against the mantlepiece and smoking a cigarette with an air of detachment so pronounced as to be something very like defiance.
    Mr Todhunter was not a perceptive man, but even he could not fail to be aware that there was something wrong here. The feeling between the two men seemed to amount almost to enmity. And whether the unknown Jean might be Farroway’s wife or his daughter, there was surely no reason why his own son-in-law should appear to resent the mention of her name.
    Farroway seemed to be catching the resentment.
    â€œHas your firm given you the afternoon off, Vincent?” he asked with a distinct edge in his usually gentle voice.
    The young man stared at him haughtily. “I happen to be here on business.”
    â€œReally? For Fitch and Son?” The sarcasm was almost crude.
    â€œNo. Private,” replied the young man very curtly.
    â€œIndeed? Then I won’t enquire further. Nevertheless, Mr Todhunter and I—”
    â€œAll right,” interrupted the young man rudely. “I was just going in any case.”
    With a brief nod in the direction of Mr Todhunter he stumped out of the room. Farroway drooped into a chair in a spiritless way and wiped his forehead.
    Mr Todhunter, who had been growing more and more embarrassed, remarked rather foolishly:
    â€œWhat an extremely handsome young man.”
    â€œVincent? Yes, I suppose he is. He’s an engineer. With Fitch and Son. Big firm—something to do with steel construction work. Ferroconcrete, I believe it’s called. Not brilliant, but quite sound at his job. He married my elder daughter.” Farroway wiped his forehead again, as if the recital of this short biography had been almost too much for him.
    Mr Todhunter was spared the necessity for comment by the entrance with tea of an extremely pretty maid, her daintiness enhanced by the almost musical-comedy style of her uniform, with its too-short black silk skirts, too-small, too-frilly apron, and over-elaborate cap.
    â€œTea, sir,” she remarked in a voice that was distinctly pert.
    â€œThank you, Marie,” Farroway replied listlessly. Then as the maid reached the door he added: “Oh, Marie, I’m expecting a telephone call from Paris. If it comes through, call me at once.”
    â€œYes sir. Very good,” replied the girl and minced daintily out of the room. Mr Todhunter almost expected her to pause in the doorway and kick a saucy heel.
    Mr Todhunter ventured a question: “I hope I may have the pleasure of meeting your wife?”
    Farroway looked at him over the teapot. “My wife’s at home.”
    â€œAt home?”
    â€œIn the north. We live in Yorkshire. I thought you knew.” Farroway spoke in a dull voice, pouring out the tea in a mechanical way. Since the exit of the Greek god he seemed to have relapsed into a kind of listless melancholy. “Milk and