THE TOUCHSTONE
"Gad! What a haul! When were they written?"
"I don't know—that is—they corresponded for years. What 's the odds?" He moved toward his hat with a vague impulse of flight.
"It all counts," said Flamel imperturbably. "A long correspondence—one, I mean, that covers a great deal of time—is obviously worth more than if the same number of letters had been written within a year. At any rate, you won't give them to Joslin? They'd fill a book, wouldn't they?"
"I suppose so. I don't know how much it takes to fill a book."
"Not love-letters, you say?"
"Why?" flashed from Glennard.
"Oh, nothing—only the big public is sentimental, and if they were—why, you could get any money for Margaret Aubyn's love-letters."
Glennard was silent.
"Are the letters interesting in themselves? I mean apart from the association with her name?"
"I'm no judge." Glennard took up his hat and thrust himself into his overcoat. "I dare say I
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