Trial and Error by Anthony Berkeley Page A

sugar?”
    â€œOne very small lump of sugar first, please, then the tea, and then a very little milk, please,” replied Mr Todhunter with precision.
    Farroway stared in a helpless kind of way at the tray. “I’m afraid I put the tea in first. Does it matter?” He glanced uncertainly at the bell, as if wondering whether to ring for a fresh cup.
    â€œNot at all, not at all,” replied Mr Todhunter politely. But his opinion of Farroway, which had been sinking ever since he entered the room, dropped a further couple of inches. A man who does not know better than to put in the sugar first and the tea after, is even worse than a man who allows his wife to smother her piano in embroidery and dress her maid like something out of a Cochran revue.
    â€œNo,” he went on with forced brightness, “I don’t think I knew you lived in the north. Then this is just a pied-à-terre for you in London?”
    â€œWell, in a way.” Farroway seemed a little embarrassed. “That is, it isn’t really my flat. Or rather . . . at least, I use it when I’m up. That is to say, I have a bedroom here. I have to be up in London a great deal, you see. Business and—and so on. And both my daughters live in London.”
    â€œOf course.” Mr Todhunter wondered why the man should evidently feel it necessary to make excuses to a semi-stranger for his presence in London.
    â€œMy younger daughter isn’t even married, you see,” continued Farroway almost feverishly. “I find it advisable to keep an eye on her at times. My wife quite agrees with me.”
    â€œOf course,” repeated Mr Todhunter, his wonder growing.
    â€œThe stage, you know,” said Farroway vaguely and took an absent bite of the piece of wafer-like bread and butter which he had been waving a little wildly in the air.
    â€œOh yes? Your daughter’s on stage?”
    â€œFelicity? No, I don’t think she is. At least, I’m not sure. She was, of course. But I believe she’s left it. She told me she was going to when I saw her last. But I haven’t seen her for some time now.”
    If Mr Todhunter had not been a very well-brought-up man, he would have stared at his host. He was convinced by now that the man was a little mad, and he did not care for mad persons. With growing uneasiness he took a small iced cake, although iced cakes invariably upset him.
    While he was wondering how to get away, Farroway said in a completely different tone:
    â€œBy the way, did you notice that exquisite little oil which was put up just after the big Lawrence? It was supposed to be attributed to one of the Ostades, but it didn’t seem to me like their style at all. I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it wasn’t an early Frans Hals. I very nearly had a shot for it. I would have done, if I could have afforded the chance.”
    A lucid interval, thought Mr Todhunter, and proceeded to encourage it. “Certainly I remember it,” he said without very much truth. “Let me see, how much did it fetch?”
    â€œTwenty-four pounds.”
    â€œOh yes, of course, yes. Most interesting. Yes, it’s quite possible.” Mr Todhunter did have time for a fleeting surprise that a man with Farroway’s income should think he could not afford twenty-four pounds for a picture, but he was too anxious to keep the conversaton on rational lines to dwell on it.
    For ten minutes the two discussed objects of beauty and value, and Farroway presented a perfect picture of the alert and intelligent connoisseur. His lethargy had fallen from him, he spoke with firmness and precision.
    Then a faint ringing could be heard, and Farroway cocked an eager ear. “That sounds like my telephone call,” he remarked.
    A moment later the musical-comedy maid appeared in the doorway. “Paris on the line, sir,” she said with a bright smile and a coquettish little flounce of her brief skirts which seemed