Poisoned Chocolates Case by Anthony Berkeley

is easy to conceive that, in that particular man's regard, Sir Eustace Pennefather becomes nothing short of an impossibility.
    “And a man who is a man,” added Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, quite mauve with intensity, “does not admit impossibilities.” She paused, pregnantly.
    “Curtain, Act I,” confided Mr. Bradley behind his hand to Mr. Ambrose Chitterwick.
    Mr. Chitterwick smiled nervously.

The Poisoned Chocolates Case

CHAPTER VIII
    SIR CHARLES took the usual advantage of the first interval to rise from his seat. Like so many of us in these days by the time of the first interval (when it is not a play of Mrs. Fielder - Flemming's that is in question) he felt almost physically unable to contain himself longer.
    “Mr. President,” he boomed, “let us get this clear. Is Mrs. Fielder - Flemming making the preposterous accusation that some friend of my daughter's is responsible for this crime, or is she not?”
    The President looked somewhat helplessly up at the bulk towering wrathfully above him and wished he were anything but the President. “I really don't know, Sir Charles,” he professed, which was not only feeble but untrue.
    Mrs. Fielder - Flemming however was by now quite able to speak up for herself. “I have not yet specifically accused any one of the crime, Sir Charles,” she said, with a cold dignity that was only marred by the fact that her hat, which had apparently been sharing its mistress's emotions, was now perched rakishly over her left ear. “So far I have been simply developing a thesis.”
    To Mr. Bradley Sir Charles would have replied, with Johnsonian scorn of evasion: “Sir, damn your thesis.” Hampered now by the puerilities of civilised convention regarding polite intercourse between the sexes, he could only summon up once more the blue glare.
    With the unfairness of her sex Mrs. Fielder - Flemming promptly took advantage of his handicap. “And,” she added pointedly, “I have not yet finished doing so.”
    Sir Charles sat down, the perfect allegory. But he grunted very naughtily to himself as he did so.
    Mr. Bradley restrained an impulse to clap Mr. Chitterwick on the back and then chuck him under the chin.
    Her serenity so natural as to be patently artificial, Mrs. Fielder - Flemming proceeded to call the interval closed and ring up the curtain on her second act.
    “Having given you my processes towards arriving at the identity of the third member of the triangle I postulated, in other words towards that of the murderer, I will go on to the actual evidence and show how that supports my conclusions. Did I say 'supports'? I meant, confirms them beyond all doubt.”
    “But what are your conclusions, Mrs. Fielder - Flemming?” Bradley asked, with an air of bland interest. “You haven't defined them yet. You only hinted that the murderer was a rival of Sir Eustace's for the hand of Miss Wildman.”
    “Exactly,” agreed Alicia Dammers. “Even if you don't want to tell us the man's name yet, Mabel, can't you narrow it down a little more for us?” Miss Dammers disliked vagueness. It savoured to her of the slipshod, which above all things in this world she detested. Moreover she really was extremely interested to know upon whom Mrs. Fielder - Flemming's choice had alighted. Mabel, she knew, might look like one sort of fool, talk like another sort, and behave like a third; and yet really she was not a fool at all.
    But Mabel was determined to be coy. “Not yet, I'm afraid. For certain reasons I want to prove my case first. You'll understand later, I think.”
    “Very well,” sighed Miss Dammers. “But do let's keep away from the detective - story atmosphere. All we want to do is to solve this difficult case, not mystify each other.”
    “I have my reasons, Alicia,” frowned Mrs. Fielder - Flemming, and rather obviously proceeded to collect her thoughts. "Where was I? Oh yes, the evidence. Now this is very interesting. I have succeeded in obtaining two pieces of quite vital