THE TOUCHSTONE
Flamel filled the pause with a nod of interest.
"A poor chap I used to know—who died—he died last year—and who left me a lot of letters, letters he thought a great deal of—he was fond of me and left 'em to me outright, with the idea, I suppose, that they might benefit me somehow—I don't know—I'm not much up on such things—" He reached his hand to the tall glass his host had filled.
"A collection of autograph letters, eh? Any big names?"
"Oh, only one name. They're all letters written to him—by one person, you understand; a woman, in fact—"
"Oh, a woman," said Flamel negligently.
Glennard was nettled by his obvious loss of interest. "I rather think they'd attract a good deal of notice if they were published."
Flamel still looked uninterested. "Love-letters, I suppose?"
"Oh, just—the letters a woman would write to a man she knew well. They were tremendous friends, he and she."
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