“Considerable,” answered Spargo. “Don’t mention to anyone that I showed it to you. You shall know everything eventually.” “Oh, all right, my boy, all right!” said Crowfoot. “Odd how things turn up, isn’t it? Now, I’ll wager anything that there aren’t half a dozen of these old things outside Market Milcaster itself. As I said, there were only fifty, and they were all in possession of burgesses. They were so much thought of that they were taken great care of. I’ve been in Market Milcaster myself since the races were given up, and I’ve seen these tickets carefully framed and hung over mantelpieces—oh, yes!” Spargo caught at a notion. “How do you get to Market Milcaster?” he asked. “Paddington,” replied Crowfoot. “It’s a goodish way.” “I wonder,” said Spargo, “if there’s any old sporting man there who could remember—things. Anything about this ticket, for instance?” “Old sporting man!” exclaimed Crowfoot. “Egad!—but no, he must be dead—anyhow, if he isn’t dead, he must be a veritable patriarch. Old Ben Quarterpage, he was an auctioneer in the town, and a rare sportsman.” “I may go down there,” said Spargo. “I’ll see if he’s alive.” “Then, if you do go down,” suggested Crowfoot, “go to the old ‘Yellow Dragon’ in the High Street, a fine old place. Quarterpage’s place of business and his private house were exactly opposite the ‘Dragon.’ But I’m afraid you’ll find him dead—it’s five and twenty years since I was in Market Milcaster, and he was an old bird then. Let’s see, now. If Old Ben Quarterpage is alive, Spargo, he’ll be ninety years of age!” “Well, I’ve known men of ninety who were spry enough, even in my bit of experience,” said Spargo. “I know one—now—my own grandfather. Well, the best of thanks, Crowfoot, and I’ll tell you all about it some day.” “Have another drink?” suggested Crowfoot. But Spargo excused himself. He was going back to the office, he said; he still had something to do. And he got himself away from the Octoneumenoi, in spite of Starkey, who wished to start a general debate on the wisest way of expending the club’s ready money balance, and went back to the _Watchman_, and there he sought the presence of the editor, and in spite of the fact that it was the busiest hour of the night, saw him and remained closeted with him for the extraordinary space of ten minutes. And after that Spargo went home and fell into bed. But next morning, bright and early, he was on the departure platform at Paddington, suit-case in hand, and ticket in pocket for Market Milcaster, and in the course of that afternoon he found himself in an old-fashioned bedroom looking out on Market Milcaster High Street. And there, right opposite him, he saw an ancient house, old brick, ivy-covered, with an office at its side, over the door of which was the name, _Benjamin Quarterpage_. CHAPTER SIXTEEN THE “YELLOW DRAGON”