Пробный камень

IV

           Idon’toftenhavetheluckofseeingyouhere.”

           “I’mratherdrivenjustnow,”saidGlennard,vaguely.Hefoundhimselfseatedagain,andFlamelhadpushedtohissidealowstandholdingabottleofApollinarisandadecanterofcognac.

           Flamel,thrownbackinhiscapaciousarm-chair,surveyedhimthroughacloudofsmokewiththecomfortabletoleranceofthemantowhomnoinconsistenciesneedbeexplained.Connivancewasimplicitintheair.Itwasthekindofatmosphereinwhichtheoutrageouslosesitsedge.Glennardfeltagradualrelaxingofhisnerves.

           “Isupposeonehastopayalotforletterslikethat?”heheardhimselfasking,withaglanceinthedirectionofthevolumehehadlaidaside.

           “Oh,so-so—dependsoncircumstances.”Flamelviewedhimthoughtfully.“Areyouthinkingofcollecting?”

           Glennardlaughed.“Lord,no.Theotherwayround.”

           “Selling?”

           “Oh,Ihardlyknow.Iwasthinkingofapoorchap—”

           Flamelfilledthepausewithanodofinterest.

           “ApoorchapIusedtoknow—whodied—hediedlastyear—andwholeftmealotofletters,lettershethoughtagreatdealof—hewasfondofmeandleft’emtomeoutright,withtheidea,Isuppose,thattheymightbenefitmesomehow—Idon’tknow—I’mnotmuchuponsuchthings—”hereachedhishandtothetallglasshishosthadfilled.

           “Acollectionofautographletters,eh?Anybignames?”

           “Oh,onlyonename.They’reallletterswrittentohim—byoneperson,youunderstand;awoman,infact—”

           “Oh,awoman,”saidFlamel,negligently.

           Glennardwasnettledbyhisobviouslossofinterest.

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