would be impossible for him ever to sink lower in his own
estimation. He was in truth less ashamed of weighing the temptation than
of submitting his scruples to a man like Flamel, and affecting to appeal
to sentiments of delicacy on the absence of which he had consciously
reckoned. But he had reached a point where each word seemed to compel
another, as each wave in a stream is forced forward by the pressure
behind it; and before Flamel could speak he had faltered out--"You don't
think people could say... could criticise the man...."

"But the man's dead, isn't he?"

"He's dead--yes; but can I assume the responsibility without--"

Flamel hesitated; and almost immediately Glennard's scruples gave way
to irritation. If at this hour Flamel were to affect an inopportune
reluctance--!

The older man's answer reassured him. "Why need you assume any
responsibility? Your name won't appear, of course; and as to your
friend's, I don't see why his should, either. He wasn't a celebrity
himself, I suppose?"

"No, no."

"Then the letters can be addressed to Mr. Blank. Doesn't that make it
all right?"

Glennard's hesitation revived. "For the public, yes. But I don't see
that it alters the case for me. The question is, ought I to publish them
at all?"

"Of course you ought to." Flamel spoke with invigorating emphasis. "I
doubt if you'd be justified in keeping them back. Anything of Margaret
Aubyn's is more or less public property by this time. She's too great
for any one of us. I was only wondering how you could use them to the
best advantage--to yourself, I mean. How many are there?"

"Oh, a lot; perhaps a hundred--I haven't counted. There may be more...."

"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 interestin