“My dear Flamel,”
“Many apologies for not sending you sooner the enclosed check, which represents the customary percentage on the sale of the Letters.”
“Trusting you will excuse the oversight,
“Yours truly,
“Stephen Glennard.”
He let himself out of the darkened house and dropped the letter in the post-box at the corner.
The next afternoon he was detained late at his office, and as he was preparing to leave he heard someone asking for him in the outer room. He seated himself again and Flamel was shown in.
The two men, as Glennard pushed aside an obstructive chair, had a moment to measure each other; then Flamel advanced, and drawing out his note-case, laid a slip of paper on the desk.
“My dear fellow, what on earth does this mean?” Glennard recognized his check.
“That I was remiss, simply. It ought to have gone to you before.”
Flamel’s tone had been that of unaffected surprise, but at this his accent changed and he asked, quickly: “On what ground?”