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“Then you MUST know who he is,” cried Mrs. Armiger, with a triumphant air of penetration.

Hartly and Flamel laughed and Dresham shook his head. “No one knows; not even the publishers; so they tell me at least.”

“So they tell you to tell us,” Hartly astutely amended; and Mrs. Armiger added, with the appearance of carrying the argument a point farther, “But even if HE’S dead and SHE’S dead, somebody must have given the letters to the publishers.”

“A little bird, probably,” said Dresham, smiling indulgently on her deduction.

“A little bird of prey then–a vulture, I should say–” another man interpolated.

“Oh, I’m not with you there,” said Dresham, easily. “Those letters belonged to the public.”

“How can any letters belong to the public that weren’t written to the public?” Mrs. Touchett interposed.

“Well, these were, in a sense. A personality as big as Margaret Aubyn’s belongs to the world. Such a mind is part of the general fund of thought. It’s the penalty of greatness–one becomes a monument historique. Posterity pays the cost of keeping one up, but on condition that one is always open to the public.”

“I don’t see that that exonerates the man who gives up the keys of the sanctuary, as it were.”

“Who WAS he?” another voice inquired.

“Who was he? Oh, nobody, I fancy–the letter-box, the slit in the wall through which the letters passed to posterity. . . .”

“But she never meant them for posterity!”

“A woman shouldn’t write such letters if she doesn’t mean them to be published. . . .”

“She shouldn’t write them to such a man!” Mrs. Touchett scornfully corrected.

“I never keep letters,” said Mrs. Armiger, under the obvious impression that she was contributing a valuable point to the discussion.

There was a general laugh, and Flamel, who had not spoken, said, lazily, “You women are too incurably subjective. I venture to say that most men would see in those letters merely their immense literary value, their significance as documents. The personal side doesn’t count where there’s so much else.”

“Oh, we all know you haven’t any principles,” Mrs. Armiger declared; and Alexa Glennard, lifting an indolent smile, said: “I shall never write you a love-letter, Mr. Flamel.”

Glennard moved away impatiently. Such talk was as tedious as the buzzing of gnats. He wondered why his wife had wanted to drag him on such a senseless expedition. . . . He hated Flamel’s crowd– and what business had Flamel himself to interfere in that way, standing up for the publication of the letters as though Glennard needed his defence? . . .

Glennard turned his head and saw that Flamel had drawn a seat to Alexa’s elbow and was speaking to her in a low tone. The other groups had scattered, straying in twos along the deck. It came over Glennard that he should never again be able to see Flamel speaking to his wife without the sense of sick mistrust that now loosened his joints. . . .

Alexa, the next morning, over their early breakfast, surprised her husband by an unexpected request.

“Will you bring me those letters from town?” she asked.

“What letters?” he said, putting down his cup. He felt himself as helplessly vulnerable as a man who is lunged at in the dark.

“Mrs. Aubyn’s. The book they were all talking about yesterday.”

Glennard, carefully measuring his second cup of tea, said, with deliberation, “I didn’t know you cared about that sort of thing.”

She was, in fact, not a great reader, and a new book seldom reached her till it was, so to speak, on the home stretch; but she replied, with a gentle tenacity, “I think it would interest me because I read her life last year.”

“Her life? Where did you get that?”

“Someone lent it to me when it came out–Mr. Flamel, I think.”

His first impulse was to exclaim, “Why the devil do you borrow books of Flamel? I can buy you all you want–” but he felt himself irresistibly forced into an attitude of smiling compliance. “Flamel always has the newest books going, hasn’t he? You must be careful, by the way, about returning what he lends you. He’s rather crotchety about his library.”