Glennard had turned his unseeing stare on an ecstatic Saint
Catherine framed in tarnished gilding.

"It's just this way," he began again, with an effort. "When
letters are as personal as--as these of my friend's. . . . Well,
I don't mind telling you that the cash would make a heap of
difference to me; such a lot that it rather obscures my judgment--
the fact is if I could lay my hand on a few thousands now I could
get into a big thing, and without appreciable risk; and I'd like
to know whether you think I'd be justified--under the
circumstances. . . ." He paused, with a dry throat. It seemed to
him at the moment that it would be impossible for him ever to sink
lower in his own estimation. He was in truth less ashamed of
weighing the temptation than of submitting his scruples to a man
like Flamel, and affecting to appeal to sentiments of delicacy on
the absence of which he had consciously reckoned. But he had
reached a point where each word seemed to compel another, as each
wave in a stream is forced forward by the pressure behind it; and
before Flamel could speak he had faltered out--"You don't think
people could say . . . could criticise the man. . . ."

"But the man's dead, isn't he?"

"He's dead--yes; but can I assume the responsibility without--"

Flamel hesitated; and almost immediately Glennard's scruples gave
way to irritation. If at this hour Flamel were to affect an
inopportune reluctance--!

The older man's answer reassured him. "Why need you assume any