"And didn't suspect it, I suppose," Glennard sneered.

The other was again silent; then he said, "I may remind you that,
supposing I had felt any curiosity about the matter, I had no way
of finding out that the letters were written to you. You never
showed me the originals."

"What does that prove? There were fifty ways of finding out.
It's the kind of thing one can easily do."

Flamel glanced at him with contempt. "Our ideas probably differ
as to what a man can easily do. It would not have been easy for
me."

Glennard's anger vented itself in the words uppermost in his
thought. "It may, then, interest you to hear that my wife DOES
know about the letters--has known for some months. . . ."

"Ah," said the other, slowly. Glennard saw that, in his blind
clutch at a weapon, he had seized the one most apt to wound.
Flamel's muscles were under control, but his face showed the
undefinable change produced by the slow infiltration of poison.
Every implication that the words contained had reached its mark;
but Glennard felt that their obvious intention was lost in the
anguish of what they suggested. He was sure now that Flamel would
never have betrayed him; but the inference only made a wider
outlet for his anger. He paused breathlessly for Flamel to speak.

"If she knows, it's not through me." It was what Glennard had