"Through no fault of your own, dear lady. The purberries used in making the filling were not freshly picked. They have the characteristic flavor of refrigeration."
"The manager of the store swore to me that they were fresh! Oh, I'll kill him, I'll murder him—"
She broke down in a flood of tears.
Ronar said to the lady who had protested, "I trust, madam, that you will now have slightly greater confidence in my judgment."
She blushed and subsided.
Ronar went on with the testing. Ninety per cent of the cakes he was able to discard at once, from some fault in the raw materials used or in the method of baking. Eleven cakes survived the first elimination contest.
He went over them again, more slowly this time. When he had completed the second round of tests, only three were left. Number 17 belonged to Mrs. Cabanis. Number 43 had been made by the man who argued with his wife. Number 64 was the product of the young bride, whom he had still not seen.
Ronar paused. "My sense of taste is somewhat fatigued. I shall have to ask for a short recess before proceeding further."
There was a sigh from the audience. The tension was not released, it was merely relaxed for a short interval.