THE TOUCHSTONE
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 intent was lost in the anguish of what they suggested. He was sure
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