"Nobody but one o' these here Radicals and levellers could talk o' doing away with such proper institutions," affirmed Spizey. "But I tell yer--I've heard of it. He said--but you'd scarce believe it!--there was no need for a town crier, nor a bellman, and, as for this mace, it could be carried on Mayor's Day by a policeman! Fancy that, now--our mace carried by a policeman!" "Dear, dear!" said Bunning. "Don't seem to fit in, that! However," he added consolingly, "if they did abolish you, you'd no doubt get a handsome pension." "Pension!" exclaimed Spizey. "That's a detail!--it's the office I'm a-considering of. What this here free and ancient borough 'ud look like, without me, I cannot think!" He shook his head and went sadly away, and Bunning, suddenly remembering that it was about his supper-time, prepared to retreat into the room which he and his wife shared, at the end of the stone hall. But as he entered the gates, a quick firm footstep sounded behind him, and he turned to see a smart, alert-looking young man approaching. Bunning recognized him as a stranger whom he had seen once or twice before, at intervals, in company with Wallingford. For the second time that night he saluted. "Looking for the Mayor, sir?" he asked, throwing the gate open. "His Worship's upstairs--I was to show you up. Mr. Brent, isn't it, sir?" "Right!" replied the other. "My cousin left word I was to join him here. Whereabouts is he in this old fortress of yours?" "This way, sir," said Bunning. "Fortress, you call it, sir, but it's more like a rabbit-warren! No end of twists and turns--that is, once you get inside it." He preceded Richard Brent up the stone staircase, along narrow corridors and passages, until he came to a door, at which he knocked gently. Receiving no reply he opened it and went in, motioning Brent to follow. But before Bunning had well crossed the threshold he started back with a sharp cry. The Mayor was there, but he was lying face forward across the desk--lifeless. CHAPTER II THE CAMBRIC HANDKERCHIEF Bunning knew the Mayor was dead before that cry of surprise had passed his lips. In his time he had seen many dead men--sometimes it was a bullet, sometimes a bayonet; he knew the signs of what follows on the swift passage of one and the sharp thrust of the other. In his first glance into the room he had been quick to notice the limp hand hanging across the edge of the desk, the way in which Wallingford's head lay athwart the mass of papers over which he had collapsed in falling forward from his chair--that meant death. And the old soldier's observant eye had seen more than that--over the litter of documents which lay around the still figure were great crimson stains. The caretaker's cry changed to articulated speech. "Murder! The Mayor's been murdered!" Brent, a strongly-built and active man, pushed by, and made for the desk. He was going to lay a hand on his cousin's shoulder, but Bunning stopped him.