THE TOUCHSTONE
"What's this?" he asked with a listless sense of wonder.
"Ah, you're at my manuscript shelf. I've been going in for that sort of thing lately." Flamel came up and looked over his shoulders. "That's a bit of Stendhal—one of the Italian stories—and here are some letters of Balzac to Madame Surville."
Glennard took the book with sudden eagerness. "Who was Madame Surville?"
"His sister." He was conscious that Flamel was looking at him with the smile that was like an interrogation point. "I didn't know you cared for this kind of thing."
"I don't—at least I've never had the chance. Have you many collections of letters?"
"Lord, no—very few. I'm just beginning, and most of the interesting ones are out of my reach. Here's a queer little collection, though—the rarest thing I've got—half a dozen of Shelley's letters to Harriet Westbrook. I had a devil of a time getting them—a lot of collectors were after them."
Glennard, taking the volume from his hand,
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