"Oh, I don't know. I haven't thought much about it. I just
happened to see that some fellow was writing her life--"

"Joslin; yes. You didn't think of giving them to him?"

Glennard had lounged across the room and stood staring up at a
bronze Bacchus who drooped his garlanded head above the pediment
of an Italian cabinet. "What ought I to do? You're just the
fellow to advise me." He felt the blood in his cheek as he spoke.

Flamel sat with meditative eye. "What do you WANT to do with
them?" he asked.

"I want to publish them," said Glennard, swinging round with
sudden energy--"If I can--"

"If you can? They're yours, you say?"

"They're mine fast enough. There's no one to prevent--I mean
there are no restrictions--" he was arrested by the sense that
these accumulated proofs of impunity might precisely stand as the
strongest check on his action.

"And Mrs. Aubyn had no family, I believe?"

"No."

"Then I don't see who's to interfere," said Flamel, studying his
cigar-tip.