THE TOUCHSTONE
to advise me." He felt the blood in his cheek as he spoke.
Flamel sat with meditative eye. "What do you want to do with them?" he asked.
"I want to publish them," said Glennard, swinging round with sudden energy—"If I can—"
"If you can? They 're yours, you say?"
"They're mine fast enough. There's no one to prevent—I mean there are no restrictions—" he was arrested by the sense that these accumulated proofs of impunity might precisely stand as the strongest check on his action.
"And Mrs. Aubyn had no family, I believe?"
"No."
"Then I don't see who 's to interfere," said Flamel, studying his cigar-tip.
Glennard had turned his unseeing stare on an ecstatic Saint Catherine framed in tarnished gilding.
"It's just this way," he began again, with an effort. "When letters are as personal as—as these of my friend's. . . . Well, I don't mind telling you that the cash would make a heap of difference to
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