Glennard's hand lingered on the knob. "How much--should you say?
You know about such things."

"Oh, I should have to see the letters; but I should say--well, if
you've got enough to fill a book and they're fairly readable, and
the book is brought out at the right time--say ten thousand down
from the publisher, and possibly one or two more in royalties. If
you got the publishers bidding against each other you might do
even better; but of course I'm talking in the dark."

"Of course," said Glennard, with sudden dizziness. His hand had
slipped from the knob and he stood staring down at the exotic
spirals of the Persian rug beneath his feet.

"I'd have to see the letters," Flamel repeated.

"Of course--you'd have to see them. . . ." Glennard stammered;
and, without turning, he flung over his shoulder an inarticulate
"Good-by. . . ."



V


The little house, as Glennard strolled up to it between the trees,
seemed no more than a gay tent pitched against the sunshine. It
had the crispness of a freshly starched summer gown, and the
geraniums on the veranda bloomed as simultaneously as the flowers