“That’s just it!”
“What—?”
“The certainty of your not seeing was what made me go to you. When a man’s got stolen goods to pawn he doesn’t take them to the police-station.”
“Stolen?” Flamel echoed. “The letters were stolen?”
Glennard burst into a coarse laugh. “How much longer do you expect me to keep up that pretence about the letters? You knew well enough they were written to me.”
Flamel looked at him in silence. “Were they?” he said at length. “I didn’t know it.”
“And didn’t suspect it, I suppose,” Glennard sneered.
The other was again silent; then he said, “I may remind you that, supposing I had felt any curiosity about the matter, I had no way of finding out that the letters were written to you. You never showed me the originals.”
“What does that prove? There were fifty ways of finding out. It’s the kind of thing one can easily do.”
Flamel glanced at him with contempt. “Our ideas probably differ as to what a man can easily do. It would not have been easy for me.”