"Oh, only one name. They're all letters written to him--by one
person, you understand; a woman, in fact--"

"Oh, a woman," said Flamel, negligently.

Glennard was nettled by his obvious loss of interest. "I rather
think they'd attract a good deal of notice if they were
published."

Flamel still looked uninterested. "Love-letters, I suppose?"

"Oh, just--the letters a woman would write to a man she knew well.
They were tremendous friends, he and she."

"And she wrote a clever letter?"

"Clever? It was Margaret Aubyn."

A great silence filled the room. It seemed to Glennard that the
words had burst from him as blood gushes from a wound.

"Great Scott!" said Flamel, sitting up. "A collection of Margaret
Aubyn's letters? Did you say YOU had them?"

"They were left me--by my friend."

"I see. Was he--well, no matter. You're to be congratulated, at
any rate. What are you going to do with them?"

Glennard stood up with a sense of weariness in all his bones.