echo in it; one thought reverberated endlessly. . . . At length
he drew his chair to the table and began to write. He addressed
an envelope and then slowly re-read what he had written.


"MY DEAR FLAMEL"

"Many apologies for not sending you sooner the enclosed check,
which represents the customary percentage on the sale of the
Letters."

"Trusting you will excuse the oversight,
"Yours truly,
"STEPHEN GLENNARD."


He let himself out of the darkened house and dropped the letter in
the post-box at the corner.


The next afternoon he was detained late at his office, and as he
was preparing to leave he heard someone asking for him in the
outer room. He seated himself again and Flamel was shown in.

The two men, as Glennard pushed aside an obstructive chair, had a
moment to measure each other; then Flamel advanced, and drawing
out his note-case, laid a slip of paper on the desk.

"My dear fellow, what on earth does this mean?" Glennard
recognized his check.