Glennard, without answering, was mechanically taking one book
after another from the shelves. His hands slipped curiously over
the smooth covers and the noiseless subsidence of opening pages.
Suddenly he came on a thin volume of faded manuscript.

"What's this?" he asked, with a listless sense of wonder.

"Ah, you're at my manuscript shelf. I've been going in for that
sort of thing lately." Flamel came up and looked over his
shoulders. "That's a bit of Stendhal--one of the Italian stories--
and here are some letters of Balzac to Madame Commanville."

Glennard took the book with sudden eagerness. "Who was Madame
Commanville?"

"His sister." He was conscious that Flamel was looking at him
with the smile that was like an interrogation point. "I didn't
know you cared for this kind of thing."

"I don't--at least I've never had the chance. Have you many
collections of letters?"

"Lord, no--very few. I'm just beginning, and most of the
interesting ones are out of my reach. Here's a queer little
collection, though--the rarest thing I've got--half a dozen of
Shelley's letters to Harriet Westbrook. I had a devil of a time
getting them--a lot of collectors were after them."

Glennard, taking the volume from his hand, glanced with a kind of