through a cloud of smoke with the comfortable tolerance of the man
to whom no inconsistencies need be explained. Connivance was
implicit in the air. It was the kind of atmosphere in which the
outrageous loses its edge. Glennard felt a gradual relaxing of
his nerves.

"I suppose one has to pay a lot for letters like that?" he heard
himself asking, with a glance in the direction of the volume he
had laid aside.

"Oh, so-do--depends on circumstances." Flamel viewed him
thoughtfully. "Are you thinking of collecting?"

Glennard laughed. "Lord, no. The other way round."

"Selling?"

"Oh, I hardly know. I was thinking of a poor chap--"

Flamel filled the pause with a nod of interest.

"A poor chap I used to know--who died--he died last year--and who
left me a lot of letters, letters he thought a great deal of--he
was fond of me and left 'em to me outright, with the idea, I
suppose, that they might benefit me somehow--I don't know--I'm not
much up on such things--" he reached his hand to the tall glass
his host had filled.

"A collection of autograph letters, eh? Any big names?"