“Every one! For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “the families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people here in Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re just outside the town, or they’re not far away. I can’t conceive how the ticket you have—and it’s genuine enough—could ever get out of possession of one of these families, and—” “Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of possession. I told you it was found in the lining of a box—that box belonged to a dead man.” “A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “A dead man! Who could—ah! Perhaps—perhaps I have an idea. Yes!—an idea. I remember something now that I had never thought of.” The old gentleman unfastened the clasp of his parchment-bound book, and turned over its pages until he came to one whereon was a list of names. He pointed this out to Spargo. “There is the list of holders of the silver tickets at the time the race-meetings came to an end,” he said. “If you were acquainted with this town you would know that those are the names of our best-known inhabitants—all, of course, burgesses. There’s mine, you see—Quarterpage. There’s Lummis, there’s Kaye, there’s Skene, there’s Templeby—the gentlemen you saw last night. All good old town names. They all are—on this list. I know every family mentioned. The holders of that time are many of them dead; but their successors have the tickets. Yes—and now that I think of it, there’s only one man who held a ticket when this list was made about whom I don’t know anything—at least, anything recent. The ticket, Mr. Spargo, which you’ve found must have been his. But I thought—I thought somebody else had it!” “And this man, sir? Who was he?” asked Spargo, intuitively conscious that he was coming to news. “Is his name there?” The old man ran the tip of his finger down the list of names. “There it is!” he said. “John Maitland.” Spargo bent over the fine writing. “Yes, John Maitland,” he observed. “And who was John Maitland?” Mr. Quarterpage shook his head. He turned to another of the many drawers in an ancient bureau, and began to search amongst a mass of old newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up. “If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr. Spargo,” he said, “you would have known who John Maitland was. For some time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place—aye, and in this corner of the world. But—aye, here it is—the newspaper of October 5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you’ll find in this old newspaper who John Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ve just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day’s business over with my son—you take this newspaper out into the garden there with one of these cigars, and read what’ll you find in it, and when you’ve read that we’ll have some more talk.” Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN AN OLD NEWSPAPER