points most damaging to his case: the fact that he had been a
friend of Margaret Aubyn's, and that he had concealed from Alexa
his share in the publication of the letters. To a man of less
than Flamel's astuteness it must now be clear to whom the letters
were addressed; and the possibility once suggested, nothing could
be easier than to confirm it by discreet research. An impulse of
self-accusal drove Glennard to the window. Why not anticipate
betrayal by telling his wife the truth in Flamel's presence? If
the man had a drop of decent feeling in him, such a course would
be the surest means of securing his silence; and above all, it
would rid Glennard of the necessity of defending himself against
the perpetual criticism of his wife's belief in him. . . .

The impulse was strong enough to carry him to the window; but
there a reaction of defiance set in. What had he done, after all,
to need defence and explanation? Both Dresham and Flamel had, in
his hearing, declared the publication of the letters to be not
only justifiable but obligatory; and if the disinterestedness of
Flamel's verdict might be questioned, Dresham's at least
represented the impartial view of the man of letters. As to
Alexa's words, they were simply the conventional utterance of the
"nice" woman on a question already decided for her by other "nice"
women. She had said the proper thing as mechanically as she would
have put on the appropriate gown or written the correct form of
dinner-invitation. Glennard had small faith in the abstract
judgments of the other sex; he knew that half the women who were
horrified by the publication of Mrs. Aubyn's letters would have
betrayed her secrets without a scruple.

The sudden lowering of his emotional pitch brought a proportionate