Пробний камінь
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.
