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The blood rushed to Glennard’s forehead. He sat up with a jerk and pushed back the lid in the roof of the hansom; but when the cabman bent down he dropped into his seat without speaking. Then, becoming conscious of the prolonged interrogation of the lifted lid, he called out–“Turn–drive back–anywhere–I’m in a hurry–“

As the cab swung round he caught a last glimpse of the two figures. They had not moved; Alexa, with bent head, stood listening.

“My God, my God–” he groaned.

It was hideous–it was abominable–he could not understand it. The woman was nothing to him–less than nothing–yet the blood hummed in his ears and hung a cloud before him. He knew it was only the stirring of the primal instinct, that it had no more to do with his reasoning self than any reflex impulse of the body; but that merely lowered anguish to disgust. Yes, it was disgust he felt–almost a physical nausea. The poisonous fumes of life were in his lungs. He was sick, unutterably sick. . . .

He drove home and went to his room. They were giving a little dinner that night, and when he came down the guests were arriving. He looked at his wife: her beauty was extraordinary, but it seemed to him the beauty of a smooth sea along an unlit coast. She frightened him.

He sat late that night in his study. He heard the parlor-maid lock the front door; then his wife went upstairs and the lights were put out. His brain was like some great empty hall with an echo in it; one thought reverberated endlessly. . . . At length he drew his chair to the table and began to write. He addressed an envelope and then slowly re-read what he had written.

“MY DEAR FLAMEL”

“Many apologies for not sending you sooner the enclosed check, which represents the customary percentage on the sale of the Letters.”

“Trusting you will excuse the oversight,
“Yours truly,
“STEPHEN GLENNARD.”

He let himself out of the darkened house and dropped the letter in the post-box at the corner.

The next afternoon he was detained late at his office, and as he was preparing to leave he heard someone asking for him in the outer room. He seated himself again and Flamel was shown in.

The two men, as Glennard pushed aside an obstructive chair, had a moment to measure each other; then Flamel advanced, and drawing out his note-case, laid a slip of paper on the desk.

“My dear fellow, what on earth does this mean?” Glennard recognized his check.

“That I was remiss, simply. It ought to have gone to you before.”

Flamel’s tone had been that of unaffected surprise, but at this his accent changed and he asked, quickly: “On what ground?”

Glennard had moved away from the desk and stood leaning against the calf-backed volumes of the bookcase. “On the ground that you sold Mrs. Aubyn’s letters for me, and that I find the intermediary in such cases is entitled to a percentage on the sale.”

Flamel paused before answering. “You find, you say. It’s a recent discovery?”

“Obviously, from my not sending the check sooner. You see I’m new to the business.”

“And since when have you discovered that there was any question of business, as far as I was concerned?”

Glennard flushed and his voice rose slightly. “Are you reproaching me for not having remembered it sooner?”

Flamel, who had spoken in the rapid repressed tone of a man on the verge of anger, stared a moment at this and then, in his natural voice, rejoined, good-humoredly, “Upon my soul, I don’t understand you!”

The change of key seemed to disconcert Glennard. “It’s simple enough–” he muttered.

“Simple enough–your offering me money in return for a friendly service? I don’t know what your other friends expect!”

“Some of my friends wouldn’t have undertaken the job. Those who would have done so would probably have expected to be paid.”