obviously worth more than if the same number of letters had been
written within a year. At any rate, you won't give them to
Joslin? They'd fill a book, wouldn't they?"

"I suppose so. I don't know how much it takes to fill a book."

"Not love-letters, you say?"

"Why?" flashed from Glennard.

"Oh, nothing--only the big public is sentimental, and if they
WERE--why, you could get any money for Margaret Aubyn's love-
letters."

Glennard was silent.

"Are the letters interesting in themselves? I mean apart from the
association with her name?"

"I'm no judge." Glennard took up his hat and thrust himself into
his overcoat. "I dare say I sha'n't do anything about it. And,
Flamel--you won't mention this to anyone?"

"Lord, no. Well, I congratulate you. You've got a big thing."
Flamel was smiling at him from the hearth.

Glennard, on the threshold, forced a response to the smile, while
he questioned with loitering indifference--"Financially, eh?"

"Rather; I should say so."