“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage. “I cannot conceive how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those—what shall we call them—heirlooms?—yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could possibly be base enough to part with it. Therefore, I ask again—Where did you get that, young gentleman?” “Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you will tell me exactly what this is? I see it to be a bit of old, polished, much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse. But—what is it?” The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous grunts. Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke. “It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now unfortunately a thing of the past,” he added. “Fifty—aye, forty!—years ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was—was—” “A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen. “Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It was a grand thing—a very grand thing. Those tickets, sir, were treasured—are treasured. And yet you, a stranger, show us one! You got it, sir—” Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short. “I found this ticket—under mysterious circumstances—in London,” he answered. “I want to trace it. I want to know who its original owner was. That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.” Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces. “Wonderful!” he said. “Wonderful! He found this ticket—one of our famous fifty—in London, and under mysterious circumstances. He wants to trace it—he wants to know to whom it belonged! That is why he has come to Market Milcaster. Most extraordinary! Gentlemen, I appeal to you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in Market Milcaster for—I don’t know how many years?” There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the whole town. “But—why?” he asked, showing great surprise. “Why?” “Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Why? He asks—why? Because, young gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our fifty tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families to whom they belonged! And unless I am vastly, greatly, most unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market Milcaster family.” “No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo. And he was going to add that until the previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he wisely refrained. “No, I’m certainly not,” he added. Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe.