“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 sha’n’t do anything about it. And, Flamel—you won’t mention this to anyone?”
“Lord, no. Well, I congratulate you. You’ve got a big thing.” Flamel was smiling at him from the hearth.
Glennard, on the threshold, forced a response to the smile, while he questioned with loitering indifference—“Financially, eh?”
“Rather; I should say so.”