“He seemed to me the sort of man who doesn’t waste words,” agreed Mr.

Criedir. “Well, there was no doubt about the stamps, nor about their

great value. But I had to explain to him that I was retiring from

business that very day, and did not wish to enter into even a single

deal, and that, therefore, I couldn’t do anything. ‘No matter,’ he

says, ‘I daresay there are lots of men in your line of trade—perhaps

you can recommend me to a good firm?’ ‘I could recommend you to a dozen

extra-good firms,’ I answered. ‘But I can do better for you. I’ll give

you the name and address of a private buyer who, I haven’t the least

doubt, will be very glad to buy that set from you and will give you a

big price.’ ‘Write it down,’ he says, ‘and thank you for your trouble.’

So I gave him a bit of advice as to the price he ought to get, and I

wrote the name and address of the man I referred to on the back of one

of my cards.”

“Whose name and address?” asked Spargo.

“Mr. Nicholas Cardlestone, 2, Pilcox Buildings, Middle Temple Lane,”

replied Mr. Criedir. “Mr. Cardlestone is one of the most enthusiastic

and accomplished philatelists in Europe. And I knew he didn’t possess

that set of stamps.”

“I know Mr. Cardlestone,” remarked Spargo. “It was at the foot of his

stairs that Marbury was found murdered.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Criedir. “Which makes me think that he was going to

see Mr. Cardlestone when he was set upon, murdered, and robbed.”

Spargo looked fixedly at the retired stamp-dealer.

“What, going to see an elderly gentleman in his rooms in the Temple, to

offer to sell him philatelic rarities at—past midnight?” he said. “I

think—not much!”

“All right,” replied Mr. Criedir. “You think and argue on modern

lines—which are, of course, highly superior. But—how do you account for

my having given Marbury Mr. Cardlestone’s address and for his having

been found dead—murdered—at the foot of Cardlestone’s stairs a few

hours later?”

“I don’t account for it,” said Spargo. “I’m trying to.”

Mr. Criedir made no comment on this. He looked his visitor up and down

for a moment; gathered some idea of his capabilities, and suddenly

offered him a cigarette. Spargo accepted it with a laconic word of

thanks, and smoked half-way through it before he spoke again.

“Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to account. And I shall account. And I’m

much obliged to you, Mr. Criedir, for what you’ve told me. Now, then,

may I ask you a question or two?”

“A thousand!” responded Mr. Criedir with great geniality.

“Very well. Did Marbury say he’d call on Cardlestone?”

“He did. Said he’d call as soon as he could—that day.”

“Have you told Cardlestone what you’ve just told me?”

“I have. But not until an hour ago—on my way back from your office, in

fact. I met him in Fleet Street and told him.”

“Had he received a call from Marbury?”

“No! Never heard of or seen the man. At least, never heard of him until

he heard of the murder. He told me he and his friend, Mr. Elphick,

another philatelist, went to see the body, wondering if they could

recognize it as any man they’d ever known, but they couldn’t.”

“I know they did,” said Spargo. “I saw ’em at the mortuary. Um!

Well—one more question. When Marbury left you, did he put those stamps

in his box again, as before?”

“No,” replied Mr. Criedir. “He put them in his right-hand breast

pocket, and he locked up his old box, and went off swinging it in his

left hand.”

Spargo went away down Fleet Street, seeing nobody. He muttered to

himself, and he was still muttering when he got into his room at the

office. And what he muttered was the same thing, repeated over and over

again:

“Six hours—six hours—six hours! Those six hours!”

Next morning the _Watchman_ came out with four leaded columns of

up-to-date news about the Marbury Case, and right across the top of the

four ran a heavy double line of great capitals, black and staring:—WHO

SAW JOHN MARBURY BETWEEN 3.15 P.M. AND 9.15 P.M. ON THE DAY PRECEDING

HIS MURDER?

CHAPTER TEN

THE LEATHER BOX

Whether Spargo was sanguine enough to expect that his staring headline

would bring him information of the sort he wanted was a secret which he

kept to himself. That a good many thousands of human beings must have

set eyes on John Marbury between the hours which Spargo set forth in

that headline was certain; the problem was—What particular owner or

owners of a pair or of many pairs of those eyes would remember him? Why

should they remember him? Walters and his wife had reason to remember

him; Criedir had reason to remember him; so had Myerst; so had William

Webster. But between a quarter past three, when he left the London and

Universal Safe Deposit, and a quarter past nine, when he sat down by

Webster’s side in the lobby of the House of Commons, nobody seemed to

have any recollection of him except Mr. Fiskie, the hatter, and he only

remembered him faintly, and because Marbury had bought a fashionable

cloth cap at his shop. At any rate, by noon of that day, nobody had

come forward with any recollection of him. He must have gone West from

seeing Myerst, because he bought his cap at Fiskie’s; he must

eventually have gone South-West, because he turned up at Westminster.

But where else did he go? What did he do? To whom did he speak? No

answer came to these questions.

“That shows,” observed young Mr. Ronald Breton, lazing an hour away in

Spargo’s room at the _Watchman_ at that particular hour which is

neither noon nor afternoon, wherein even busy men do nothing, “that

shows how a chap can go about London as if he were merely an ant that

had strayed into another ant-heap than his own. Nobody notices.”

“You’d better go and read up a little elementary entomology, Breton,”

said Spargo. “I don’t know much about it myself, but I’ve a pretty good

idea that when an ant walks into the highways and byways of a colony to

which he doesn’t belong he doesn’t survive his intrusion by many

seconds.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” said Breton. “London’s an ant-heap, isn’t

it? One human ant more or less doesn’t count. This man Marbury must

have gone about a pretty tidy lot during those six hours. He’d ride on

a ’bus—almost certain. He’d get into a taxi-cab—I think that’s much

more certain, because it would be a novelty to him. He’d want some

tea—anyway, he’d be sure to want a drink, and he’d turn in somewhere to

get one or the other. He’d buy things in shops—these Colonials always

do. He’d go somewhere to get his dinner. He’d—but what’s the use of

enumeration in this case?”

“A mere piling up of platitudes,” answered Spargo.

“What I mean is,” continued Breton, “that piles of people must have

seen him, and yet it’s now hours and hours since your paper came out

this morning, and nobody’s come forward to tell anything. And when you

come to think of it, why should they? Who’d remember an ordinary man in

a grey tweed suit?”

“‘An ordinary man in a grey tweed suit,’” repeated Spargo. “Good line.

You haven’t any copyright in it, remember. It would make a good

cross-heading.”

Breton laughed. “You’re a queer chap, Spargo,” he said. “Seriously, do

you think you’re getting any nearer anything?”

“I’m getting nearer something with everything that’s done,” Spargo

answered. “You can’t start on a business like this without evolving

something out of it, you know.”

“Well,” said Breton, “to me there’s not so much mystery in it. Mr.

Aylmore’s explained the reason why my address was found on the body;

Criedir, the stamp-man, has explained—”

Spargo suddenly looked up.

“What?” he said sharply.

“Why, the reason of Marbury’s being found where he was found,” replied

Breton. “Of course, I see it all! Marbury was mooning around Fleet

Street; he slipped into Middle Temple Lane, late as it was, just to see

where old Cardlestone hangs out, and he was set upon and done for. The

thing’s plain to me. The only thing now is to find who did it.”

“Yes, that’s it,” agreed Spargo. “That’s it.” He turned over the leaves

of the diary which lay on his desk. “By the by,” he said, looking up

with some interest, “the adjourned inquest is at eleven o’clock

tomorrow morning. Are you going?”

“I shall certainly go,” answered Breton. “What’s more, I’m going to

take Miss Aylmore and her sister. As the gruesome details were over at

the first sitting, and as there’ll be nothing but this new evidence

tomorrow, and as they’ve never been in a coroner’s court——”

“Mr. Aylmore’ll be the principal witness tomorrow,” interrupted Spargo.

“I suppose he’ll be able to tell a lot more than he told—me.”

Breton shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t see that there’s much more to tell,” he said. “But,” he added,

with a sly laugh, “I suppose you want some more good copy, eh?”

Spargo glanced at his watch, rose, and picked up his hat. “I’ll tell

you what I want,” he said. “I want to know who John Marbury was. That

would make good copy. Who he was—twenty—twenty-five—forty years ago.

Eh?”

“And you think Mr. Aylmore can tell?” asked Breton.

“Mr. Aylmore,” answered Spargo as they walked towards the door, “is the

only person I have met so far who has admitted that he knew John

Marbury in the—past. But he didn’t tell me—much. Perhaps he’ll tell the

coroner and his jury—more. Now, I’m off Breton—I’ve an appointment.”

And leaving Breton to find his own way out, Spargo hurried away, jumped

into a taxi-cab and speeded to the London and Universal Safe Deposit.

At the corner of its building he found Rathbury awaiting him.

“Well?” said Spargo, as he sprang out: “How is it?”

“It’s all right,” answered Rathbury. “You can be present: I got the

necessary permission. As there are no relations known, there’ll only be

one or two officials and you, and the Safe Deposit people, and myself.

Come on—it’s about time.”

“It sounds,” observed Spargo, “like an exhumation.”

Rathbury laughed. “Well, we’re certainly going to dig up a dead man’s

secrets,” he said. “At least, we may be going to do so. In my opinion,

Mr. Spargo, we’ll find some clue in this leather box.”

Spargo made no answer. They entered the office, to be shown into a room

where were already assembled Mr. Myerst, a gentleman who turned out to

be the chairman of the company, and the officials of whom Rathbury had

spoken. And in another moment Spargo heard the chairman explaining that

the company possessed duplicate keys to all safes, and that the proper

authorization having been received from the proper authorities, those

present would now proceed to the safe recently tenanted by the late Mr.

John Marbury, and take from it the property which he himself had

deposited there, a small leather box, which they would afterwards bring

to that room and cause to be opened in each other’s presence.

It seemed to Spargo that there was an unending unlocking of bolts and

bars before he and his fellow-processionists came to the safe so

recently rented by the late Mr. John Marbury, now undoubtedly deceased.

And at first sight of it, he saw that it was so small an affair that it

seemed ludicrous to imagine that it could contain anything of any

importance. In fact, it looked to be no more than a plain wooden

locker, one amongst many in a small strong room: it reminded Spargo

irresistibly of the locker in which, in his school days, he had kept

his personal belongings and the jam tarts, sausage rolls, and hardbake

smuggled in from the tuck-shop. Marbury’s name had been newly painted

upon it; the paint was scarcely dry. But when the wooden door—the front

door, as it were, of this temple of mystery, had been solemnly opened

by the chairman, a formidable door of steel was revealed, and

expectation still leapt in the bosoms of the beholders.

“The duplicate key, Mr. Myerst, if you please,” commanded the chairman,

“the duplicate key!”

Myerst, who was fully as solemn as his principal, produced a

curious-looking key: the chairman lifted his hand as if he were about

to christen a battleship: the steel door swung slowly back. And there,

in a two-foot square cavity, lay the leather box.

It struck Spargo as they filed back to the secretary’s room that the

procession became more funereal-like than ever. First walked the

chairman, abreast with the high official, who had brought the necessary

authorization from the all-powerful quarter; then came Myerst carrying

the box: followed two other gentlemen, both legal lights, charged with

watching official and police interests; Rathbury and Spargo brought up

the rear. He whispered something of his notions to the detective;

Rathbury nodded a comprehensive understanding.

“Let’s hope we’re going to see—something!” he said.

In the secretary’s room a man waited who touched his forelock

respectfully as the heads of the procession entered. Myerst set the box

on the table: the man made a musical jingle of keys: the other members

of the procession gathered round.

“As we naturally possess no key to this box,” announced the chairman in

grave tones, “it becomes our duty to employ professional assistance in

opening it. Jobson!”

He waved a hand, and the man of the keys stepped forward with alacrity.

He examined the lock of the box with a knowing eye; it was easy to see

that he was anxious to fall upon it. While he considered matters,

Spargo looked at the box. It was pretty much what it had been described

to him as being; a small, square box of old cow-hide, very strongly

made, much worn and tarnished, fitted with a handle projecting from the

lid, and having the appearance of having been hidden away somewhere for

many a long day.

There was a click, a spring: Jobson stepped back.

“That’s it, if you please, sir,” he said.

The chairman motioned to the high official.

“If you would be good enough to open the box, sir,” he said. “Our duty

is now concluded.”

As the high official laid his hand on the lid the other men gathered

round with craning necks and expectant eyes. The lid was lifted:

somebody sighed deeply. And Spargo pushed his own head and eyes nearer.

The box was empty!

Empty, as anything that can be empty is empty! thought Spargo: there

was literally nothing in it. They were all staring into the interior of

a plain, time-worn little receptacle, lined out with old-fashioned

chintz stuff, such as our Mid-Victorian fore-fathers were familiar

with, and containing—nothing.

“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the chairman. “This is—dear me!—why,

there is nothing in the box!”

“That,” remarked the high official, drily, “appears to be obvious.”

The chairman looked at the secretary.

“I understood the box was valuable, Mr. Myerst,” he said, with the

half-injured air of a man who considers himself to have been robbed of

an exceptionally fine treat. “Valuable!”

Myerst coughed.

“I can only repeat what I have already said, Sir Benjamin,” he

answered. “The—er late Mr. Marbury spoke of the deposit as being of

great value to him; he never permitted it out of his hand until he

placed it in the safe. He appeared to regard it as of the greatest

value.”

“But we understand from the evidence of Mr. Criedir, given to the

_Watchman_ newspaper, that it was full of papers and—and other

articles,” said the chairman. “Criedir saw papers in it about an hour

before it was brought here.”

Myerst spread out his hands.

“I can only repeat what I have said, Sir Benjamin,” he answered. “I

know nothing more.”

“But why should a man deposit an empty box?” began the chairman. “I—”

The high official interposed.

“That the box is empty is certain,” he observed. “Did you ever handle

it yourself, Mr. Myerst?”

Myerst smiled in a superior fashion.

“I have already observed, sir, that from the time the deceased entered

this room until the moment he placed the box in the safe which he

rented, the box was never out of his hands,” he replied.

Then there was silence. At last the high official turned to the

chairman.

“Very well,” he said. “We’ve made the enquiry. Rathbury, take the box

away with you and lock it up at the Yard.”

So Spargo went out with Rathbury and the box; and saw excellent, if

mystifying, material for the article which had already become the daily

feature of his paper.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

MR. AYLMORE IS QUESTIONED

It seemed to Spargo as he sat listening to the proceedings at the

adjourned inquest next day that the whole story of what was now

world-famous as the Middle Temple Murder Case was being reiterated

before him for the thousandth time. There was not a detail of the story

with which he had not become familiar to fulness. The first proceeding

before the coroner had been of a merely formal nature; these were

thorough and exhaustive; the representative of the Crown and twelve

good men and true of the City of London were there to hear and to find

out and to arrive at a conclusion as to how the man known as John

Marbury came by his death. And although he knew all about it, Spargo

found himself tabulating the evidence in a professional manner, and

noting how each successive witness contributed, as it were, a chapter

to the story. The story itself ran quite easily, naturally,

consecutively—you could make it in sections. And Spargo, sitting merely

to listen, made them:

1. The Temple porter and Constable Driscoll proved the finding of the

body.

2. The police surgeon testified as to the cause of death—the man had

been struck down from behind by a blow, a terrible blow—from some heavy

instrument, and had died immediately.

3. The police and the mortuary officials proved that when the body was

examined nothing was found in the clothing but the now famous scrap of

grey paper.

4. Rathbury proved that by means of the dead man’s new fashionable

cloth cap, bought at Fiskie’s well-known shop in the West-End, he

traced Marbury to the Anglo-Orient Hotel in the Waterloo District.

5. Mr. and Mrs. Walters gave evidence of the arrival of Marbury at the

Anglo-Orient Hotel, and of his doings while he was in and about there.

6. The purser of the ss. _Wambarino_ proved that Marbury sailed from

Melbourne to Southampton on that ship, excited no remark, behaved

himself like any other well-regulated passenger, and left the

_Wambarino_ at Southampton early in the morning of what was to be the

last day of his life in just the ordinary manner.

7. Mr. Criedir gave evidence of his rencontre with Marbury in the

matter of the stamps.

8. Mr. Myerst told of Marbury’s visit to the Safe Deposit, and further

proved that the box which he placed there proved, on official

examination, to be empty.

9. William Webster re-told the story of his encounter with Marbury in

one of the vestibules of the House of Commons, and of his witnessing

the meeting between him and the gentleman whom he (Webster) now knew to

be Mr. Aylmore, a Member of Parliament.

All this led up to the appearance of Mr. Aylmore, M.P., in the

witness-box. And Spargo knew and felt that it was that appearance for

which the crowded court was waiting. Thanks to his own vivid and

realistic specials in the _Watchman_, everybody there had already

become well and thoroughly acquainted with the mass of evidence

represented by the nine witnesses who had been in the box before Mr.

Aylmore entered it. They were familiar, too, with the facts which Mr.

Aylmore had permitted Spargo to print after the interview at the club,

which Ronald Breton arranged. Why, then, the extraordinary interest

which the Member of Parliament’s appearance aroused? For everybody was

extraordinarily interested; from the Coroner downwards to the last man

who had managed to squeeze himself into the last available inch of the

public gallery, all who were there wanted to hear and see the man who

met Marbury under such dramatic circumstances, and who went to his

hotel with him, hobnobbed with him, gave him advice, walked out of the

hotel with him for a stroll from which Marbury never returned. Spargo

knew well why the interest was so keen—everybody knew that Aylmore was

the only man who could tell the court anything really pertinent about

Marbury; who he was, what he was after; what his life had been.

He looked round the court as the Member of Parliament entered the

witness-box—a tall, handsome, perfectly-groomed man, whose beard was

only slightly tinged with grey, whose figure was as erect as a

well-drilled soldier’s, who carried about him an air of conscious

power. Aylmore’s two daughters sat at a little distance away, opposite

Spargo, with Ronald Breton in attendance upon them; Spargo had

encountered their glance as they entered the court, and they had given

him a friendly nod and smile. He had watched them from time to time; it

was plain to him that they regarded the whole affair as a novel sort of

entertainment; they might have been idlers in some Eastern bazaar,

listening to the unfolding of many tales from the professional

tale-tellers. Now, as their father entered the box, Spargo looked at

them again; he saw nothing more than a little heightening of colour in

their cheeks, a little brightening of their eyes.

“All that they feel,” he thought, “is a bit of extra excitement at the

idea that their father is mixed up in this delightful mystery. Um!

Well—now how much is he mixed up?”

And he turned to the witness-box and from that moment never took his

eyes off the man who now stood in it. For Spargo had ideas about the

witness which he was anxious to develop.

The folk who expected something immediately sensational in Mr.

Aylmore’s evidence were disappointed. Aylmore, having been sworn, and

asked a question or two by the Coroner, requested permission to tell,

in his own way, what he knew of the dead man and of this sad affair;

and having received that permission, he went on in a calm,

unimpassioned manner to repeat precisely what he had told Spargo. It

sounded a very plain, ordinary story. He had known Marbury many years

ago. He had lost sight of him for—oh, quite twenty years. He had met

him accidentally in one of the vestibules of the House of Commons on

the evening preceding the murder. Marbury had asked his advice. Having

no particular duty, and willing to do an old acquaintance a good turn,

he had gone back to the Anglo-Orient Hotel with Marbury, had remained

awhile with him in his room, examining his Australian diamonds, and had

afterwards gone out with him. He had given him the advice he wanted;

they had strolled across Waterloo Bridge; shortly afterwards they had

parted. That was all he knew.

The court, the public, Spargo, everybody there, knew all this already.

It had been in print, under a big headline, in the _Watchman_. Aylmore

had now told it again; having told it, he seemed to consider that his

next step was to leave the box and the court, and after a perfunctory

question or two from the Coroner and the foreman of the jury he made a

motion as if to step down. But Spargo, who had been aware since the

beginning of the enquiry of the presence of a certain eminent counsel

who represented the Treasury, cocked his eye in that gentleman’s

direction, and was not surprised to see him rise in his well-known,

apparently indifferent fashion, fix his monocle in his right eye, and

glance at the tall figure in the witness-box.

“The fun is going to begin,” muttered Spargo.

The Treasury representative looked from Aylmore to the Coroner and made

a jerky bow; from the Coroner to Aylmore and straightened himself. He

looked like a man who is going to ask indifferent questions about the

state of the weather, or how Smith’s wife was last time you heard of

her, or if stocks are likely to rise or fall. But Spargo had heard this

man before, and he knew many signs of his in voice and manner and

glance.

“I want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Aylmore, about your

acquaintanceship with the dead man. It was an acquaintanceship of some

time ago?” began the suave, seemingly careless voice.

“A considerable time ago,” answered Aylmore.

“How long—roughly speaking?”

“I should say from twenty to twenty-two or three years.”

“Never saw him during that time until you met accidentally in the way

you have described to us?”

“Never.”

“Ever heard from him?”

“No.”

“Ever heard of him?”

“No.”

“But when you met, you knew each other at once?”

“Well—almost at once.”

“Almost at once. Then, I take it, you were very well known to each

other twenty or twenty-two years ago?”

“We were—yes, well known to each other.”

“Close friends?”

“I said we were acquaintances.”

“Acquaintances. What was his name when you knew him at that time?”

“His name? It was—Marbury.”

“Marbury—the same name. Where did you know him?”

“I—oh, here in London.”

“What was he?”

“Do you mean—what was his occupation?”

“What was his occupation?”

“I believe he was concerned in financial matters.”

“Concerned in financial matters. Had you dealings with him?”

“Well, yes—on occasions.”

“What was his business address in London?”

“I can’t remember that.”

“What was his private address?”

“That I never knew.”

“Where did you transact your business with him?”

“Well, we met, now and then.”

“Where? What place, office, resort?”

“I can’t remember particular places. Sometimes—in the City.”

“In the City. Where in the City? Mansion House, or Lombard Street, or

St. Paul’s Churchyard, or the Old Bailey, or where?”

“I have recollections of meeting him outside the Stock Exchange.”

“Oh! Was he a member of that institution?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Were you?”

“Certainly not!”

“What were the dealings that you had with him?”

“Financial dealings—small ones.”

“How long did your acquaintanceship with him last—what period did it

extend over?”

“I should say about six months to nine months.”

“No more?”

“Certainly no more.”

“It was quite a slight acquaintanceship, then?”

“Oh, quite!”

“And yet, after losing sight of this merely slight acquaintance for

over twenty years, you, on meeting him, take great interest in him?”

“Well, I was willing to do him a good turn, I was interested in what he

told me the other evening.”

“I see. Now you will not object to my asking you a personal question or

two. You are a public man, and the facts about the lives of public men

are more or less public property. You are represented in this work of

popular reference as coming to this country in 1902, from Argentina,

where you made a considerable fortune. You have told us, however, that

you were in London, acquainted with Marbury, about the years, say 1890

to 1892. Did you then leave England soon after knowing Marbury?”

“I did. I left England in 1891 or 1892—I am not sure which.”

“We are wanting to be very sure about this matter, Mr. Aylmore. We want

to solve the important question—who is, who was John Marbury, and how

did he come by his death? You seem to be the only available person who

knows anything about him. What was your business before you left

England?”

“I was interested in financial affairs.”

“Like Marbury. Where did you carry on your business?”

“In London, of course.”

“At what address?”

For some moments Aylmore had been growing more and more restive. His

brow had flushed; his moustache had begun to twitch. And now he squared

his shoulders and faced his questioner defiantly.

“I resent these questions about my private affairs!” he snapped out.

“Possibly. But I must put them. I repeat my last question.”

“And I refuse to answer it.”

“Then I ask you another. Where did you live in London at the time you

are telling us of, when you knew John Marbury?”

“I refuse to answer that question also!”

The Treasury Counsel sat down and looked at the Coroner.

CHAPTER TWELVE

THE NEW WITNESS

The voice of the Coroner, bland, suave, deprecating, broke the silence.

He was addressing the witness.

“I am sure, Mr. Aylmore,” he said, “there is no wish to trouble you

with unnecessary questions. But we are here to get at the truth of this

matter of John Marbury’s death, and as you are the only witness we have

had who knew him personally—”

Aylmore turned impatiently to the Coroner.

“I have every wish to respect your authority, sir!” he exclaimed. “And

I have told you all that I know of Marbury and of what happened when I

met him the other evening. But I resent being questioned on my private

affairs of twenty years ago—I very much resent it! Any question that is

really pertinent I will answer, but I will not answer questions that

seem to me wholly foreign to the scope of this enquiry.”

The Treasury Counsel rose again. His manner had become of the quietest,

and Spargo again became keenly attentive.

“Perhaps I can put a question or two to Mr. Aylmore which will not

yield him offence,” he remarked drily. He turned once more to the

witness, regarding him as if with interest. “Can you tell us of any

person now living who knew Marbury in London at the time under

discussion—twenty to twenty-two or three years ago?” he asked.

Aylmore shook his head angrily.

“No, I can’t,” he replied.

“And yet you and he must have had several business acquaintances at

that time who knew you both!”

“Possibly—at that time. But when I returned to England my business and

my life lay in different directions to those of that time. I don’t know

of anybody who knew Marbury then—anybody.”

The Counsel turned to a clerk who sat behind him, whispered to him;

Spargo saw the clerk make a sidelong motion of his head towards the

door of the court. The Counsel looked again at the witness.

“One more question. You told the court a little time since that you

parted with Marbury on the evening preceding his death at the end of

Waterloo Bridge—at, I think you said, a quarter to twelve.”

“About that time.”

“And at that place?”

“Yes.”

“That is all I want to ask you, Mr. Aylmore—just now,” said the

Counsel. He turned to the Coroner. “I am going to ask you, sir, at this

point to call a witness who has volunteered certain evidence to the

police authorities this morning. That evidence is of a very important

nature, and I think that this is the stage at which it ought to be

given to you and the jury. If you would be pleased to direct that David

Lyell be called—”

Spargo turned instinctively to the door, having seen the clerk who had

sat behind the Treasury Counsel make his way there. There came into

view, ushered by the clerk, a smart-looking, alert, self-confident

young man, evidently a Scotsman, who, on the name of David Lyell being

called, stepped jauntily and readily into the place which the member of

Parliament just vacated. He took the oath—Scotch fashion—with the same

readiness and turned easily to the Treasury Counsel. And Spargo,

glancing quickly round, saw that the court was breathless with

anticipation, and that its anticipation was that the new witness was

going to tell something which related to the evidence just given by

Aylmore.

“Your name is David Lyell?”

“That is my name, sir.”

“And you reside at 23, Cumbrae Side, Kilmarnock, Scotland?”

“I do.”

“What are you, Mr. Lyell?”

“Traveller, sir, for the firm of Messrs. Stevenson, Robertson & Soutar,

distillers, of Kilmarnock.”

“Your duties take you, I think, over to Paris occasionally?”

“They do—once every six weeks I go to Paris.”

“On the evening of June 21st last were you in London on your way to

Paris?”

“I was.”

“I believe you stayed at De Keyser’s Hotel, at the Blackfriars end of

the Embankment?”

“I did—it’s handy for the continental trains.”

“About half-past eleven, or a little later, that evening, did you go

along the Embankment, on the Temple Gardens side, for a walk?”

“I did, sir. I’m a bad sleeper, and it’s a habit of mine to take a walk

of half an hour or so last thing before I go to bed.”

“How far did you walk?”

“As far as Waterloo Bridge.”

“Always on the Temple side?”

“Just so, sir—straight along on that side.”

“Very good. When you got close to Waterloo Bridge, did you meet anybody

you knew?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament.”

Spargo could not avoid a glance at the two sisters. The elder’s head

was averted; the younger was staring at the witness steadily. And

Breton was nervously tapping his fingers on the crown of his shining

silk hat.

“Mr. Aylmore, the Member of Parliament,” repeated the Counsel’s suave,

clear tones. “Oh! And how did you come to recognize Mr. Aylmore, Member

of Parliament?”

“Well, sir, in this way. At home, I’m the secretary of our Liberal Ward

Club, and last year we had a demonstration, and it fell to me to

arrange with the principal speakers. I got Mr. Aylmore to come and

speak, and naturally I met him several times, in London and in

Scotland.”

“So that you knew him quite well?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Do you see him now, Mr. Lyell?”

Lyell smiled and half turned in the box.

“Why, of course!” he answered. “There is Mr. Aylmore.”

“There is Mr. Aylmore. Very good. Now we go on. You met Mr. Aylmore

close to Waterloo Bridge? How close?”

“Well, sir, to be exact, Mr. Aylmore came down the steps from the

bridge on to the Embankment.”

“Alone?”

“No.”

“Who was with him?”

“A man, sir.”

“Did you know the man?”

“No. But seeing who he was with. I took a good look at him. I haven’t

forgotten his face.”

“You haven’t forgotten his face. Mr. Lyell—has anything recalled that

face to you within this last day or two?”

“Yes, sir, indeed!”

“What?”

“The picture of the man they say was murdered—John Marbury.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“I’m as certain, sir, as that my name’s what it is.”

“It is your belief that Mr. Aylmore, when you met him, was accompanied

by the man who, according to the photographs, was John Marbury?”

“It is, sir!”

“Very well. Now, having seen Mr. Aylmore and his companion, what did

you do?”

“Oh, I just turned and walked after them.”

“You walked after them? They were going eastward, then?”

“They were walking by the way I’d come.”

“You followed them eastward?”

“I did—I was going back to the hotel, you see.”

“What were they doing?”

“Talking uncommonly earnestly, sir.”

“How far did you follow them?”

“I followed them until they came to the Embankment lodge of Middle

Temple Lane, sir.”

“And then?”

“Why, sir, they turned in there, and I went straight on to De Keyser’s,

and to my bed.”

There was a deeper silence in court at that moment than at any other

period of the long day, and it grew still deeper when the quiet, keen

voice put the next question.

“You swear on your oath that you saw Mr. Aylmore take his companion

into the Temple by the Embankment entrance of Middle Temple Lane on the

occasion in question?”

“I do! I could swear no other, sir.”

“Can you tell us, as near as possible, what time that would be?”

“Yes. It was, to a minute or so, about five minutes past twelve.”

The Treasury Counsel nodded to the Coroner, and the Coroner, after a

whispered conference with the foreman of the jury, looked at the

witness.

“You have only just given this information to the police, I

understand?” he said.

“Yes, sir. I have been in Paris, and in Amiens, and I only returned by

this morning’s boat. As soon as I had read all the news in the

papers—the English papers—and seen the dead man’s photographs I

determined to tell the police what I knew, and I went to New Scotland

Yard as soon as I got to London this morning.”

Nobody else wanted to ask Mr. David Lyell any questions, and he stepped

down. And Mr. Aylmore suddenly came forward again, seeking the

Coroner’s attention.

“May I be allowed to make an explanation, sir?” he began. “I—”

But the Treasury Counsel was on his feet, this time stern and

implacable. “I would point out, sir, that you have had Mr. Aylmore in

the box, and that he was not then at all ready to give explanations, or

even to answer questions,” he said. “And before you allow him to make

any explanation now, I ask you to hear another witness whom I wish to

interpose at this stage. That witness is——”

Mr. Aylmore turned almost angrily to the Coroner.

“After the evidence of the last witness, I think I have a right to be

heard at once!” he said with emphasis. “As matters stand at present, it

looks as if I had trifled, sir, with you and the jury, whereas if I am

allowed to make an explanation—”

“I must respectfully ask that before Mr. Aylmore is allowed to make any

explanation, the witness I have referred to is heard,” said the

Treasury Counsel sternly. “There are weighty reasons.”

“I am afraid you must wait a little, Mr. Aylmore, if you wish to give

an explanation,” said the Coroner. He turned to the Counsel. “Who is

this other witness?” he asked.

Aylmore stepped back. And Spargo noticed that the younger of his two

daughters was staring at him with an anxious expression. There was no

distrust of her father in her face; she was anxious. She, too, slowly

turned to the next witness. This man was the porter of the Embankment

lodge of Middle Temple Lane. The Treasury Counsel put a straight

question to him at once.

“You see that gentleman,” he said, pointing to Aylmore. “Do you know

him as an inmate of the Temple?”

The man stared at Aylmore, evidently confused.

“Why, certainly, sir!” he answered. “Quite well, sir.”

“Very good. And now—what name do you know him by?”

The man grew evidently more bewildered.

“Name, sir. Why, Mr. Anderson, sir!” he replied. “Mr. Anderson!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

UNDER SUSPICION

A distinct, uncontrollable murmur of surprise ran round the packed

court as this man in the witness-box gave this answer. It signified

many things—that there were people present who had expected some such

dramatic development; that there were others present who had not; that

the answer itself was only a prelude to further developments. And

Spargo, looking narrowly about him, saw that the answer had aroused

different feelings in Aylmore’s two daughters. The elder one had

dropped her face until it was quite hidden; the younger was sitting

bolt upright, staring at her father in utter and genuine bewilderment.

And for the first time, Aylmore made no response to her.

But the course of things was going steadily forward. There was no

stopping the Treasury Counsel now; he was going to get at some truth in

his own merciless fashion. He had exchanged one glance with the

Coroner, had whispered a word to the solicitor who sat close by him,

and now he turned again to the witness.

“So you know that gentleman—make sure now—as Mr. Anderson, an inmate of

the Temple?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t know him by any other name?”

“No, sir, I don’t.”

“How long have you known him by that name?”

“I should say two or three years, sir.”

“See him go in and out regularly?”

“No, sir—not regularly.”

“How often, then?”

“Now and then, sir—perhaps once a week.”

“Tell us what you know of Mr. Anderson’s goings-in-and-out.”

“Well, sir, I might see him two nights running; then I mightn’t see him

again for perhaps a week or two. Irregular, as you might say, sir.”

“You say ‘nights.’ Do I understand that you never see Mr. Anderson

except at night?”

“Yes, sir. I’ve never seen him except at night. Always about the same

time, sir.”

“What time?”

“Just about midnight, sir.”

“Very well. Do you remember the midnight of June 21st-22nd?”

“I do, sir.”

“Did you see Mr. Anderson enter then?”

“Yes, sir, just after twelve.”

“Was he alone?”

“No, sir; there was another gentleman with him.”

“Remember anything about that other gentleman?”

“Nothing, sir, except that I noticed as they walked through, that the

other gentleman had grey clothes on.”

“Had grey clothes on. You didn’t see his face?”

“Not to remember it, sir. I don’t remember anything but what I’ve told

you, sir.”

“That is that the other gentleman wore a grey suit. Where did Mr.

Anderson and this gentleman in the grey suit go when they’d passed

through?”

“Straight up the Lane, sir.”

“Do you know where Mr. Anderson’s rooms in the Temple are?”

“Not exactly, sir, but I understood in Fountain Court.”

“Now, on that night in question, did Mr. Anderson leave again by your

lodge?”

“No, sir.”

“You heard of the discovery of the body of a dead man in Middle Temple

Lane next morning?”

“I did, sir.”

“Did you connect that man with the gentleman in the grey suit?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. It never occurred to me. A lot of the gentlemen who

live in the Temple bring friends in late of nights; I never gave the

matter any particular thought.”

“Never mentioned it to anybody until now, when you were sent for to

come here?”

“No, sir, never, to anybody.”

“And you have never known the gentleman standing there as anybody but

Mr. Anderson?”

“No, sir, never heard any other name but Anderson.”

The Coroner glanced at the Counsel.

“I think this may be a convenient opportunity for Mr. Aylmore to give

the explanation he offered a few minutes ago,” he said. “Do you suggest

anything?”

“I suggest, sir, that if Mr. Aylmore desires to give any explanation he

should return to the witness-box and submit himself to examination

again on his oath,” replied the Counsel. “The matter is in your hands.”

The Coroner turned to Aylmore.

“Do you object to that?” he asked.

Aylmore stepped boldly forward and into the box.

“I object to nothing,” he said in clear tones, “except to being asked

to reply to questions about matters of the past which have not and

cannot have anything to do with this case. Ask me what questions you

like, arising out of the evidence of the last two witnesses, and I will

answer them so far as I see myself justified in doing so. Ask me

questions about matters of twenty years ago, and I shall answer them or

not as I see fit. And I may as well say that I will take all the

consequences of my silence or my speech.”

The Treasury Counsel rose again.

“Very well, Mr. Aylmore,” he said. “I will put certain questions to

you. You heard the evidence of David Lyell?”

“I did.”

“Was that quite true as regards yourself?”

“Quite true—absolutely true.”

“And you heard that of the last witness. Was that also true!”

“Equally true.”

“Then you admit that the evidence you gave this morning, before these

witnesses came on the scene, was not true?”

“No, I do not! Most emphatically I do not. It was true.”

“True? You told me, on oath, that you parted from John Marbury on

Waterloo Bridge!”

“Pardon me, I said nothing of the sort. I said that from the

Anglo-Orient Hotel we strolled across Waterloo Bridge, and that shortly

afterwards we parted—I did not say where we parted. I see there is a

shorthand writer here who is taking everything down—ask him if that is

not exactly what I said?”

A reference to the stenographer proved Aylmore to be right, and the

Treasury Counsel showed plain annoyance.

“Well, at any rate, you so phrased your answer that nine persons out of

ten would have understood that you parted from Marbury in the open

streets after crossing Waterloo Bridge,” he said. “Now—?”

Aylmore smiled.

“I am not responsible for the understanding of nine people out of ten

any more than I am for your understanding,” he said, with a sneer. “I

said what I now repeat—Marbury and I walked across Waterloo Bridge, and

shortly afterwards we parted. I told you the truth.”

“Indeed! Perhaps you will continue to tell us the truth. Since you have

admitted that the evidence of the last two witnesses is absolutely

correct, perhaps you will tell us exactly where you and Marbury did

part?”

“I will—willingly. We parted at the door of my chambers in Fountain

Court.”

“Then—to reiterate—it was you who took Marbury into the Temple that

night?”

“It was certainly I who took Marbury into the Temple that night.”

There was another murmur amongst the crowded benches. Here at any rate

was fact—solid, substantial fact. And Spargo began to see a possible

course of events which he had not anticipated.

“That is a candid admission, Mr. Aylmore. I suppose you see a certain

danger to yourself in making it.”

“I need not say whether I do or I do not. I have made it.”

“Very good. Why did you not make it before?”

“For my own reasons. I told you as much as I considered necessary for

the purpose of this enquiry. I have virtually altered nothing now. I

asked to be allowed to make a statement, to give an explanation, as

soon as Mr. Lyell had left this box: I was not allowed to do so. I am

willing to make it now.”

“Make it then.”

“It is simply this,” said Aylmore, turning to the Coroner. “I have

found it convenient, during the past three years, to rent a simple set

of chambers in the Temple, where I could occasionally—very

occasionally, as a rule—go late at night. I also found it convenient,

for my own reasons—with which, I think, no one has anything to do—to

rent those chambers under the name of Mr. Anderson. It was to my

chambers that Marbury accompanied me for a few moments on the midnight

with which we are dealing. He was not in them more than five minutes at

the very outside: I parted from him at my outer door, and I understood

that he would leave the Temple by the way we had entered and would

drive or walk straight back to his hotel. That is the whole truth. I

wish to add that I ought perhaps to have told all this at first. I had

reasons for not doing so. I told what I considered necessary, that I

parted from Marbury, leaving him well and alive, soon after midnight.”

“What reasons were or are they which prevented you from telling all

this at first?” asked the Treasury Counsel.

“Reasons which are private to me.”

“Will you tell them to the court?”

“No!”

“Then will you tell us why Marbury went with you to the chambers in

Fountain Court which you tenant under the name of Anderson?”

“Yes. To fetch a document which I had in my keeping, and had kept for

him for twenty years or more.”

“A document of importance?”

“Of very great importance.”

“He would have it on him when he was—as we believe he was—murdered and

robbed?”

“He had it on him when he left me.”

“Will you tell us what it was?”

“Certainly not!”

“In fact, you won’t tell us any more than you choose to tell?”

“I have told you all I can tell of the events of that night.”

“Then I am going to ask you a very pertinent question. Is it not a fact

that you know a great deal more about John Marbury than you have told

this court?”

“That I shall not answer.”

“Is it not a fact that you could, if you would, tell this court more

about John Marbury and your acquaintanceship with him twenty years

ago?”

“I also decline to answer that.”

The Treasury Counsel made a little movement of his shoulders and turned

to the Coroner.

“I should suggest, sir, that you adjourn this enquiry,” he said

quietly.

“For a week,” assented the Coroner, turning to the jury.

The crowd surged out of the court, chattering, murmuring, exclaiming—

spectators, witnesses, jurymen, reporters, legal folk, police folk, all

mixed up together. And Spargo, elbowing his own way out, and busily

reckoning up the value of the new complexions put on everything by the

day’s work, suddenly felt a hand laid on his arm. Turning he found

himself gazing at Jessie Aylmore.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

THE SILVER TICKET

With a sudden instinct of protection, Spargo quickly drew the girl

aside from the struggling crowd, and within a moment had led her into a

quiet by-street. He looked down at her as she stood recovering her

breath.

“Yes?” he said quietly.

Jessie Aylmore looked up at him, smiling faintly.

“I want to speak to you,” she said. “I must speak to you.”

“Yes,” said Spargo. “But—the others? Your sister?—Breton?”

“I left them on purpose to speak to you,” she answered. “They knew I

did. I am well accustomed to looking after myself.”

Spargo moved down the by-street, motioning his companion to move with

him.

“Tea,” he said, “is what you want. I know a queer, old-fashioned place

close by here where you can get the best China tea in London. Come and

have some.”

Jessie Aylmore smiled and followed her guide obediently. And Spargo

said nothing, marching stolidly along with his thumbs in his waistcoat

pockets, his fingers playing soundless tunes outside, until he had

installed himself and his companion in a quiet nook in the old

tea-house he had told her of, and had given an order for tea and hot

tea-cakes to a waitress who evidently knew him. Then he turned to her.

“You want,” he said, “to talk to me about your father.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I do.”

“Why?” asked Spargo.

The girl gave him a searching look.

“Ronald Breton says you’re the man who’s written all those special

articles in the _Watchman_ about the Marbury case,” she answered. “Are

you?”

“I am,” said Spargo.

“Then you’re a man of great influence,” she went on. “You can stir the

public mind. Mr. Spargo—what are you going to write about my father and

today’s proceedings?”

Spargo signed to her to pour out the tea which had just arrived. He

seized, without ceremony, upon a piece of the hot buttered tea-cake,

and bit a great lump out of it.

“Frankly,” he mumbled, speaking with his mouth full, “frankly, I don’t

know. I don’t know—yet. But I’ll tell you this—it’s best to be candid—I

shouldn’t allow myself to be prejudiced or biassed in making up my

conclusions by anything that you may say to me. Understand?”

Jessie Aylmore took a sudden liking to Spargo because of the

unconventionality and brusqueness of his manners.

“I’m not wanting to prejudice or bias you,” she said. “All I want is

that you should be very sure before you say—anything.”

“I’ll be sure,” said Spargo. “Don’t bother. Is the tea all right?”

“Beautiful!” she answered, with a smile that made Spargo look at her

again. “Delightful! Mr. Spargo, tell me!—what did you think about—about

what has just happened?”

Spargo, regardless of the fact that his fingers were liberally

ornamented with butter, lifted a hand and rubbed his always untidy

hair. Then he ate more tea-cake and gulped more tea.

“Look here!” he said suddenly. “I’m no great hand at talking. I can

write pretty decently when I’ve a good story to tell, but I don’t talk

an awful lot, because I never can express what I mean unless I’ve got a

pen in my hand. Frankly, I find it hard to tell you what I think. When

I write my article this evening, I’ll get all these things marshalled

in proper form, and I shall write clearly about ’em. But I’ll tell you

one thing I do think—I wish your father had made a clean breast of

things to me at first, when he gave me that interview, or had told

everything when he first went into that box.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because he’s now set up an atmosphere of doubt and suspicion around

himself. People’ll think—Heaven knows what they’ll think! They already

know that he knows more about Marbury than he’ll tell, that—”

“But does he?” she interrupted quickly. “Do you think he does?”

“Yes!” replied Spargo, with emphasis. “I do. A lot more! If he had only

been explicit at first—however, he wasn’t. Now it’s done. As things

stand—look here, does it strike you that your father is in a very

serious position?”

“Serious?” she exclaimed.

“Dangerous! Here’s the fact—he’s admitted that he took Marbury to his

rooms in the Temple that midnight. Well, next morning Marbury’s found

robbed and murdered in an entry, not fifty yards off!”

“Does anybody suppose that my father would murder him for the sake of

robbing him of whatever he had on him?” she laughed scornfully. “My

father is a very wealthy man, Mr. Spargo.”

“May be,” answered Spargo. “But millionaires have been known to murder

men who held secrets.”

“Secrets!” she exclaimed.

“Have some more tea,” said Spargo, nodding at the teapot. “Look

here—this way it is. The theory that people—some people—will build up

(I won’t say that it hasn’t suggested itself to me) is this:—There’s

some mystery about the relationship, acquaintanceship, connection, call

it what you like, of your father and Marbury twenty odd years ago. Must

be. There’s some mystery about your father’s life, twenty odd years

ago. Must be—or else he’d have answered those questions. Very well.

‘Ha, ha!’ says the general public. ‘Now we have it!’ ‘Marbury,’ says

the general public, ‘was a man who had a hold on Aylmore. He turned up.

Aylmore trapped him into the Temple, killed him to preserve his own

secret, and robbed him of all he had on him as a blind.’ Eh?”

“You think—people will say that?” she exclaimed.

“Cock-sure! They’re saying it. Heard half a dozen of ’em say it, in

more or less elegant fashion as I came out of that court. Of course,

they’ll say it. Why, what else could they say?”

For a moment Jessie Aylmore sat looking silently into her tea-cup. Then

she turned her eyes on Spargo, who immediately manifested a new

interest in what remained of the tea-cakes.

“Is that what you’re going to say in your article tonight?” she asked,

quietly.

“No!” replied Spargo, promptly. “It isn’t. I’m going to sit on the

fence tonight. Besides, the case is _sub judice_. All I’m going to do

is to tell, in my way, what took place at the inquest.”

The girl impulsively put her hand across the table and laid it on

Spargo’s big fist.

“Is it what you think?” she asked in a low voice.

“Honour bright, no!” exclaimed Spargo. “It isn’t—it isn’t! I don’t

think it. I think there’s a most extraordinary mystery at the bottom of

Marbury’s death, and I think your father knows an enormous lot about

Marbury that he won’t tell, but I’m certain sure that he neither killed

Marbury nor knows anything whatever about his death. And as I’m out to

clear this mystery up, and mean to do it, nothing’ll make me more glad

than to clear your father. I say, do have some more tea-cake? We’ll

have fresh ones—and fresh tea.”

“No, thank you,” she said smiling. “And thank you for what you’ve just

said. I’m going now, Mr. Spargo. You’ve done me good.”

“Oh, rot!” exclaimed Spargo. “Nothing—nothing! I’ve just told you what

I’m thinking. You must go?…”

He saw her into a taxi-cab presently, and when she had gone stood

vacantly staring after the cab until a hand clapped him smartly on the

shoulder. Turning, he found Rathbury grinning at him.

“All right, Mr. Spargo, I saw you!” he said. “Well, it’s a pleasant

change to squire young ladies after being all day in that court. Look

here, are you going to start your writing just now?”

“I’m not going to start my writing as you call it, until after I’ve

dined at seven o’clock and given myself time to digest my modest

dinner,” answered Spargo. “What is it?”

“Come back with me and have another look at that blessed leather box,”

said Rathbury. “I’ve got it in my room, and I’d like to examine it for

myself. Come on!”

“The thing’s empty,” said Spargo.

“There might be a false bottom in it,” remarked Rathbury. “One never

knows. Here, jump into this!”

He pushed Spargo into a passing taxi-cab, and following, bade the

driver go straight to the Yard. Arrived there, he locked Spargo and

himself into the drab-visaged room in which the journalist had seen him

before.

“What d’ye think of today’s doings, Spargo?” he asked, as he proceeded

to unlock a cupboard.

“I think,” said Spargo, “that some of you fellows must have had your

ears set to tingling.”

“That’s so,” assented Rathbury. “Of course, the next thing’ll be to

find out all about the Mr. Aylmore of twenty years since. When a man

won’t tell you where he lived twenty years ago, what he was exactly

doing, what his precise relationship with another man was—why, then,

you’ve just got to find out, eh? Oh, some of our fellows are at work on

the life history of Stephen Aylmore, Esq., M.P., already—you bet! Well,

now, Spargo, here’s the famous box.”

The detective brought the old leather case out of the cupboard in which

he had been searching, and placed it on his desk. Spargo threw back the

lid and looked inside, measuring the inner capacity against the

exterior lines.

“No false bottom in that, Rathbury,” he said. “There’s just the outer

leather case, and the inner lining, of this old bed-hanging stuff, and

that’s all. There’s no room for any false bottom or anything of that

sort, d’you see?”

Rathbury also sized up the box’s capacity.

“Looks like it,” he said disappointedly. “Well, what about the lid,

then? I remember there was an old box like this in my grandmother’s

farmhouse, where I was reared—there was a pocket in the lid. Let’s see

if there’s anything of the sort here?”

He threw the lid back and began to poke about the lining of it with the

tips of his fingers, and presently he turned to his companion with a

sharp exclamation.

“By George, Spargo!” he said. “I don’t know about any pocket, but

there’s something under this lining. Feels like—here, you feel.

There—and there.”

Spargo put a finger on the places indicated.

“Yes, that’s so,” he agreed. “Feels like two cards—a large and a small

one. And the small one’s harder than the other. Better cut that lining

out, Rathbury.”

“That,” remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, “is just what I’m

going to do. We’ll cut along this seam.”

He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining

of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects

which he dropped on his blotting pad.

“A child’s photograph,” he said, glancing at one of them. “But what on

earth is that?”

The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin,

much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it

was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost

obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction,

was the figure of a horse.

“That’s a curious object,” remarked Spargo, picking it up. “I never saw

anything like that before. What can it be?”

“Don’t know—I never saw anything of the sort either,” said Rathbury.

“Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah—you see, the

photographer’s name and address have been torn away or broken

off—there’s nothing left but just two letters of what’s apparently been

the name of the town—see. Er—that’s all there is. Portrait of a baby,

eh?”

Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a

casual glance at the baby’s portrait. He picked up the silver ticket

again and turned it over and over.

“Look here, Rathbury,” he said. “Let me take this silver thing. I know

where I can find out what it is. At least, I think I do.”

“All right,” agreed the detective, “but take the greatest care of it,

and don’t tell a soul that we found it in this box, you know. No

connection with the Marbury case, Spargo, remember.”

“Oh, all right,” said Spargo. “Trust me.”

He put the silver ticket in his pocket, and went back to the office,

wondering about this singular find. And when he had written his article

that evening, and seen a proof of it, Spargo went into Fleet Street

intent on seeking peculiar information.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

MARKET MILCASTER

The haunt of well-informed men which Spargo had in view when he turned

out of the _Watchman_ office lay well hidden from ordinary sight and

knowledge in one of those Fleet Street courts the like of which is not

elsewhere in the world. Only certain folk knew of it. It was, of

course, a club; otherwise it would not have been what it was. It is the

simplest thing in life, in England, at any rate, to form a club of

congenial spirits. You get so many of your choice friends and

acquaintances to gather round you; you register yourselves under a name

of your own choosing; you take a house and furnish it according to your

means and your taste: you comply with the very easy letter of the law,

and there you are. Keep within that easy letter, and you can do what

you please on your own premises. It is much more agreeable to have a

small paradise of your own of this description than to lounge about

Fleet Street bars.

The particular club to which Spargo bent his steps was called the

Octoneumenoi. Who evolved this extraordinary combination of Latin and

Greek was a dark mystery: there it was, however, on a tiny brass plate

you once reached the portals. The portals were gained by devious ways.

You turned out of Fleet Street by an alley so narrow that it seemed as

if you might suddenly find yourself squeezed between the ancient walls.

Then you suddenly dived down another alley and found yourself in a

small court, with high walls around you and a smell of printer’s ink in

your nose and a whirring of printing presses in your ears. You made

another dive into a dark entry, much encumbered by bales of paper,

crates of printing material, jars of printing ink; after falling over a

few of these you struck an ancient flight of stairs and went up past

various landings, always travelling in a state of gloom and fear. After

a lot of twisting and turning you came to the very top of the house and

found it heavily curtained off. You lifted a curtain and found yourself

in a small entresol, somewhat artistically painted—the whole and sole

work of an artistic member who came one day with a formidable array of

lumber and paint-pots and worked his will on the ancient wood. Then you

saw the brass plate and its fearful name, and beneath it the formal

legal notice that this club was duly registered and so on, and if you

were a member you went in, and if you weren’t a member you tinkled an

electric bell and asked to see a member—if you knew one.

Spargo was not a member, but he knew many members, and he tinkled the

bell, and asked the boy who answered it for Mr. Starkey. Mr. Starkey, a

young gentleman with the biceps of a prize-fighter and a head of curly

hair that would have done credit to Antinous, came forth in due course

and shook Spargo by the hand until his teeth rattled.

“Had we known you were coming,” said Mr. Starkey, “we’d have had a

brass band on the stairs.”

“I want to come in,” remarked Spargo.

“Sure!” said Mr. Starkey. “That’s what you’ve come for.”

“Well, stand out of the way, then, and let’s get in,” said Spargo.

“Look here,” he continued when they had penetrated into a small

vestibule, “doesn’t old Crowfoot turn in here about this time every

night?”

“Every night as true as the clock, my son Spargo, Crowfoot puts his

nose in at precisely eleven, having by that time finished that daily

column wherein he informs a section of the populace as to the prospects

of their spotting a winner tomorrow,” answered Mr. Starkey. “It’s five

minutes to his hour now. Come in and drink till he comes. Want him?”

“A word with him,” answered Spargo. “A mere word—or two.”

He followed Starkey into a room which was so filled with smoke and

sound that for a moment it was impossible to either see or hear. But

the smoke was gradually making itself into a canopy, and beneath the

canopy Spargo made out various groups of men of all ages, sitting

around small tables, smoking and drinking, and all talking as if the

great object of their lives was to get as many words as possible out of

their mouths in the shortest possible time. In the further corner was a

small bar; Starkey pulled Spargo up to it.

“Name it, my son,” commanded Starkey. “Try the Octoneumenoi very extra

special. Two of ’em, Dick. Come to beg to be a member, Spargo?”

“I’ll think about being a member of this ante-room of the infernal

regions when you start a ventilating fan and provide members with a

route-map of the way from Fleet Street,” answered Spargo, taking his

glass. “Phew!—what an atmosphere!”

“We’re considering a ventilating fan,” said Starkey. “I’m on the house

committee now, and I brought that very matter up at our last meeting.

But Templeson, of the _Bulletin_—you know Templeson—he says what we

want is a wine-cooler to stand under that sideboard—says no club is

proper without a wine-cooler, and that he knows a chap—second-hand

dealer, don’t you know—what has a beauty to dispose of in old Sheffield

plate. Now, if you were on our house committee, Spargo, old man, would

you go in for the wine-cooler or the ventilating fan? You see—”

“There is Crowfoot,” said Spargo. “Shout him over here, Starkey, before

anybody else collars him.”

Through the door by which Spargo had entered a few minutes previously

came a man who stood for a moment blinking at the smoke and the lights.

He was a tall, elderly man with a figure and bearing of a soldier; a

big, sweeping moustache stood well out against a square-cut jaw and

beneath a prominent nose; a pair of keen blue eyes looked out from

beneath a tousled mass of crinkled hair. He wore neither hat nor cap;

his attire was a carelessly put on Norfolk suit of brown tweed; he

looked half-unkempt, half-groomed. But knotted at the collar of his

flannel shirt were the colours of one of the most famous and exclusive

cricket clubs in the world, and everybody knew that in his day their

wearer had been a mighty figure in the public eye.

“Hi, Crowfoot!” shouted Starkey above the din and babel. “Crowfoot,

Crowfoot! Come over here, there’s a chap dying to see you!”

“Yes, that’s the way to get him, isn’t it?” said Spargo. “Here, I’ll

get him myself.”

He went across the room and accosted the old sporting journalist.

“I want a quiet word with you,” he said. “This place is like a

pandemonium.”

Crowfoot led the way into a side alcove and ordered a drink.

“Always is, this time,” he said, yawning. “But it’s companionable. What

is it, Spargo?”

Spargo took a pull at the glass which he had carried with him. “I

should say,” he said, “that you know as much about sporting matters as

any man writing about ’em?”

“Well, I think you might say it with truth,” answered Crowfoot.

“And old sporting matters?” said Spargo.

“Yes, and old sporting matters,” replied the other with a sudden flash

of the eye. “Not that they greatly interest the modern generation, you

know.”

“Well, there’s something that’s interesting me greatly just now,

anyway,” said Spargo. “And I believe it’s got to do with old sporting

affairs. And I came to you for information about it, believing you to

be the only man I know of that could tell anything.”

“Yes—what is it?” asked Crowfoot.

Spargo drew out an envelope, and took from it the carefully-wrapped-up

silver ticket. He took off the wrappings and laid the ticket on

Crowfoot’s outstretched palm.

“Can you tell me what that is?” he asked.

Another sudden flash came into the old sportsman’s eyes—he eagerly

turned the silver ticket over.

“God bless my soul!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get this?”

“Never mind, just now,” replied Spargo. “You know what it is?”

“Certainly I know what it is! But—Gad! I’ve not seen one of these

things for Lord knows how many years. It makes me feel something like a

young ’un again!” said Crowfoot. “Quite a young ’un!”

“But what is it?” asked Spargo.

Crowfoot turned the ticket over, showing the side on which the heraldic

device was almost worn away.

“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at

Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot. “That’s what it is. One of the

old original silver stand tickets. There are the arms of Market

Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing. There, on the

obverse, is the figure of a running horse. Oh, yes, that’s what it is!

Bless me!—most interesting.”

“Where’s Market Milcaster?” enquired Spargo. “Don’t know it.”

“Market Milcaster,” replied Crowfoot, still turning the silver ticket

over and over, “is what the topographers call a decayed town in

Elmshire. It has steadily decayed since the river that led to it got

gradually silted up. There used to be a famous race-meeting there in

June every year. It’s nearly forty years since that meeting fell

through. I went to it often when I was a lad—often!”

“And you say that’s a ticket for the stand?” asked Spargo.

“This is one of fifty silver tickets, or passes, or whatever you like

to call ’em, which were given by the race committee to fifty burgesses

of the town,” answered Crowfoot. “It was, I remember, considered a

great privilege to possess a silver ticket. It admitted its

possessor—for life, mind you!—to the stand, the paddocks, the ring,

anywhere. It also gave him a place at the annual race-dinner. Where on

earth did you get this, Spargo?”

Spargo took the ticket and carefully re-wrapped it, this time putting

it in his purse.

“I’m awfully obliged to you, Crowfoot,” he said, “The fact is, I can’t

tell you where I got it just now, but I’ll promise you that I will tell

you, and all about it, too, as soon as my tongue’s free to do so.”

“Some mystery, eh?” suggested Crowfoot.

“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”

Spargo, changing his clothes, washing away the dust of his journey, in

that old-fashioned lavender-scented bedroom, busied his mind in further

speculations on his plan of campaign in Market Milcaster. He had no

particularly clear plan. The one thing he was certain of was that in

the old leather box which the man whom he knew as John Marbury had

deposited with the London and Universal Safe Deposit Company, he and

Rathbury had discovered one of the old silver tickets of Market

Milcaster racecourse, and that he, Spargo, had come to Market

Milcaster, with the full approval of his editor, in an endeavour to

trace it. How was he going to set about this difficult task?

“The first thing,” said Spargo to himself as he tied a new tie, “is to

have a look round. That’ll be no long job.”

For he had already seen as he approached the town, and as he drove from

the station to the “Yellow Dragon” Hotel, that Market Milcaster was a

very small place. It chiefly consisted of one long, wide

thoroughfare—the High Street—with smaller streets leading from it on

either side. In the High Street seemed to be everything that the town

could show—the ancient parish church, the town hall, the market cross,

the principal houses and shops, the bridge, beneath which ran the river

whereon ships had once come up to the town before its mouth, four miles

away, became impassably silted up. It was a bright, clean, little town,

but there were few signs of trade in it, and Spargo had been quick to

notice that in the “Yellow Dragon,” a big, rambling old hostelry,

reminiscent of the old coaching days, there seemed to be little doing.

He had eaten a bit of lunch in the coffee-room immediately on his

arrival; the coffee-room was big enough to accommodate a hundred and

fifty people, but beyond himself, an old gentleman and his daughter,

evidently tourists, two young men talking golf, a man who looked like

an artist, and an unmistakable honeymooning couple, there was no one in

it. There was little traffic in the wide street beneath Spargo’s

windows; little passage of people to and fro on the sidewalks; here a

countryman drove a lazy cow as lazily along; there a farmer in his

light cart sat idly chatting with an aproned tradesman, who had come

out of his shop to talk to him. Over everything lay the quiet of the

sunlight of the summer afternoon, and through the open windows stole a

faint, sweet scent of the new-mown hay lying in the meadows outside the

old houses.

“A veritable Sleepy Hollow,” mused Spargo. “Let’s go down and see if

there’s anybody to talk to. Great Scott!—to think that I was in the

poisonous atmosphere of the Octoneumenoi only sixteen hours ago!”

Spargo, after losing himself in various corridors and passages, finally

landed in the wide, stone-paved hall of the old hotel, and with a sure

instinct turned into the bar-parlour which he had noticed when he

entered the place. This was a roomy, comfortable, bow-windowed

apartment, looking out upon the High Street, and was furnished and

ornamented with the usual appurtenances of country-town hotels. There

were old chairs and tables and sideboards and cupboards, which had

certainly been made a century before, and seemed likely to endure for a

century or two longer; there were old prints of the road and the chase,

and an old oil-painting or two of red-faced gentlemen in pink coats;

there were foxes’ masks on the wall, and a monster pike in a glass case

on a side-table; there were ancient candlesticks on the mantelpiece and

an antique snuff-box set between them. Also there was a small,

old-fashioned bar in a corner of the room, and a new-fashioned young

woman seated behind it, who was yawning over a piece of fancy

needlework, and looked at Spargo when he entered as Andromeda may have

looked at Perseus when he made arrival at her rock. And Spargo,

treating himself to a suitable drink and choosing a cigar to accompany

it, noted the look, and dropped into the nearest chair.

“This,” he remarked, eyeing the damsel with enquiry, “appears to me to

be a very quiet place.”

“Quiet!” exclaimed the lady. “Quiet?”

“That,” continued Spargo, “is precisely what I observed. Quiet. I see

that you agree with me. You expressed your agreement with two shades of

emphasis, the surprised and the scornful. We may conclude, thus far,

that the place is undoubtedly quiet.”

The damsel looked at Spargo as if she considered him in the light of a

new specimen, and picking up her needlework she quitted the bar and

coming out into the room took a chair near his own.

“It makes you thankful to see a funeral go by here,” she remarked.

“It’s about all that one ever does see.”

“Are there many?” asked Spargo. “Do the inhabitants die much of

inanition?”

The damsel gave Spargo another critical inspection.

“Oh, you’re joking!” she said. “It’s well you can. Nothing ever happens

here. This place is a back number.”

“Even the back numbers make pleasant reading at times,” murmured

Spargo. “And the backwaters of life are refreshing. Nothing doing in

this town, then?” he added in a louder voice.

“Nothing!” replied his companion. “It’s fast asleep. I came here from

Birmingham, and I didn’t know what I was coming to. In Birmingham you

see as many people in ten minutes as you see here in ten months.”

“Ah!” said Spargo. “What you are suffering from is dulness. You must

have an antidote.”

“Dulness!” exclaimed the damsel. “That’s the right word for Market

Milcaster. There’s just a few regular old customers drop in here of a

morning, between eleven and one. A stray caller looks in—perhaps during

the afternoon. Then, at night, a lot of old fogies sit round that end

of the room and talk about old times. Old times, indeed!—what they want

in Market Milcaster is new times.”

Spargo pricked up his ears.

“Well, but it’s rather interesting to hear old fogies talk about old

times,” he said. “I love it!”

“Then you can get as much of it as ever you want here,” remarked the

barmaid. “Look in tonight any time after eight o’clock, and if you

don’t know more about the history of Market Milcaster by ten than you

did when you sat down, you must be deaf. There are some old gentlemen

drop in here every night, regular as clockwork, who seem to feel that

they couldn’t go to bed unless they’ve told each other stories about

old days which I should think they’ve heard a thousand times already!”

“Very old men?” asked Spargo.

“Methuselahs,” replied the lady. “There’s old Mr. Quarterpage, across

the way there, the auctioneer, though he doesn’t do any business

now—they say he’s ninety, though I’m sure you wouldn’t take him for

more than seventy. And there’s Mr. Lummis, further down the street—he’s

eighty-one. And Mr. Skene, and Mr. Kaye—they’re regular patriarchs.

I’ve sat here and listened to them till I believe I could write a

history of Market Milcaster since the year One.”

“I can conceive of that as a pleasant and profitable occupation,” said

Spargo.

He chatted a while longer in a fashion calculated to cheer the

barmaid’s spirits, after which he went out and strolled around the town

until seven o’clock, the “Dragon’s” hour for dinner. There were no more

people in the big coffee-room than there had been at lunch and Spargo

was glad, when his solitary meal was over, to escape to the

bar-parlour, where he took his coffee in a corner near to that sacred

part in which the old townsmen had been reported to him to sit.

“And mind you don’t sit in one of their chairs,” said the barmaid,

warningly. “They all have their own special chairs and their special

pipes there on that rack, and I suppose the ceiling would fall in if

anybody touched pipe or chair. But you’re all right there, and you’ll

hear all they’ve got to say.”

To Spargo, who had never seen anything of the sort before, and who,

twenty-four hours previously, would have believed the thing impossible,

the proceedings of that evening in the bar-parlour of the “Yellow

Dragon” at Market Milcaster were like a sudden transference to the

eighteenth century. Precisely as the clock struck eight and a bell

began to toll somewhere in the recesses of the High Street, an old

gentleman walked in, and the barmaid, catching Spargo’s eye, gave him a

glance which showed that the play was about to begin.

“Good evening, Mr. Kaye,” said the barmaid. “You’re first tonight.”

“Evening,” said Mr. Kaye and took a seat, scowled around him, and

became silent. He was a tall, lank old gentleman, clad in rusty black

clothes, with a pointed collar sticking up on both sides of his fringe

of grey whisker and a voluminous black neckcloth folded several times

round his neck, and by the expression of his countenance was inclined

to look on life severely. “Nobody been in yet?” asked Mr. Kaye. “No,

but here’s Mr. Lummis and Mr. Skene,” replied the barmaid.

Two more old gentlemen entered the bar-parlour. Of these, one was a

little, dapper-figured man, clad in clothes of an eminently sporting

cut, and of very loud pattern; he sported a bright blue necktie, a

flower in his lapel, and a tall white hat, which he wore at a rakish

angle. The other was a big, portly, bearded man with a Falstaffian

swagger and a rakish eye, who chaffed the barmaid as he entered, and

gave her a good-humoured chuck under the chin as he passed her. These

two also sank into chairs which seemed to have been specially designed

to meet them, and the stout man slapped the arms of his as familiarly

as he had greeted the barmaid. He looked at his two cronies.

“Well?” he said, “Here’s three of us. And there’s a symposium.”

“Wait a bit, wait a bit,” said the dapper little man. “Grandpa’ll be

here in a minute. We’ll start fair.”

The barmaid glanced out of the window.

“There’s Mr. Quarterpage coming across the street now,” she announced.

“Shall I put the things on the table?”

“Aye, put them on, my dear, put them on!” commanded the fat man. “Have

all in readiness.”

The barmaid thereupon placed a round table before the sacred chairs,

set out upon it a fine old punch-bowl and the various ingredients for

making punch, a box of cigars, and an old leaden tobacco-box, and she

had just completed this interesting prelude to the evening’s discourse

when the door opened again and in walked one of the most remarkable old

men Spargo had ever seen. And by this time, knowing that this was the

venerable Mr. Benjamin Quarterpage, of whom Crowfoot had told him, he

took good stock of the newcomer as he took his place amongst his

friends, who on their part received him with ebullitions of delight

which were positively boyish.

Mr. Quarterpage was a youthful buck of ninety—a middle-sized,

sturdily-built man, straight as a dart, still active of limb,

clear-eyed, and strong of voice. His clean-shaven old countenance was

ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his

hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were

smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a

fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease

of life before him even at his age.

Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began

their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them—the five

had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made the

punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out each

man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to wag.

Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of anything

but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town dropped

in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in the

presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as for

the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past.

Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when

she said that she believed she could write a history of Market

Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local

events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to

reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident

upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of

racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a

bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the

silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device

uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a

polite bow, said quietly:

“Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK

If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch—the second of the

evening—or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could

scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon

them by his sudden production of the silver ticket. Their babble of

conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his

cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was

sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the

interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his

outstretched palm, from it back to him. And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to

whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing

with great _empressement_ to the ticket.

“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble

a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?”

“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a little

with the matter. “You recognize it?”

“Know it! Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage. “Yes, and so does

every gentleman present. And it is just because I see you are a

stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it. Not, I think,

young gentleman, in this town.”

“No,” replied Spargo. “Certainly not in this town. How should I get it

in this town if I’m a stranger?”

“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.

“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not drawing

to a close—it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young

gentleman—I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory,

give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the

race-meeting came to an end. I believe I could!”

“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud suit. “Never

was such a memory as yours, never!”

“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said the

fat man. “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.”

“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage. “It’s the greatest blessing

I have in my declining years. Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a

little thought. And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty

families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or

if not close by it, I know where they are. Therefore, I cannot make out

how this young gentleman—from London, did you say, sir?”

“From London,” answered Spargo.

“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of

our tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage. “It is—wonderful! But I tell

you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to

breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books

and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of

that ticket was. My name, sir, is Quarterpage—Benjamin Quarterpage—and

I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my

breakfast hour is nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily

welcome!”

Spargo made his best bow.

“Sir,” he said, “I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I

shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment.”

Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself

in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay

with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior,

to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior—a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always

referred to by his father as something quite juvenile—and to Miss

Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than

her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the

choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and

rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a

man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a

vigorous and healthy appetite.

Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo’s possession

of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr.

Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had

judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had

exhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ had

furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he

had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no

mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr.

Quarterpage’s revelations would lead him.

“You have no idea, Mr. Spargo,” said the old gentleman, when, breakfast

over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which

were abundant evidences of the host’s taste in sporting matters; “you

have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one

of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and

just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my

dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the

year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose

great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were

distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept

in their families for ever—nobody ever anticipated in those days that

our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great

privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and

female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder

himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand

race banquet—at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has

been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the

holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody.”

“And when the race-meeting fell through?” asked Spargo. “What then?”

“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as

heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage. “They

were dealt with as I dealt with mine—framed on velvet, and hung up—or

locked away: I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care

of it. Now, I said last night, over there at the ‘Dragon,’ that I could

repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets. So I can.

But here”—the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a

parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence—“here is a

little volume of my own handwriting—memoranda relating to Market

Milcaster Races—in which is a list of the original holders, together

with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were

given up. I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the

second list, I could trace every ticket—except the one you have in your

purse.”

“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise.

“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

As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the

middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar

and settled down to read.

“MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS

“TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND

“The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on

Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the

Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on

the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman

Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton,

M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais

Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other

magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the public

in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of the Market

Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were filled with

the _élite_ of the town and neighbourhood, including a considerable

number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in the

proceedings.

“The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the

very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the

occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster—he

referred to the fact that on both those occasions his friend the

Worshipful Mayor had been able to present him with a pair of white

gloves—was not to be repeated on the present occasion. It would be

their sad and regrettable lot to have before them a fellow-townsman

whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position in the

life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the

most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the

offence of embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many

years been the trusted manager, and with which he had been connected

all his life since his school days. He understood that the prisoner who

would shortly be put before the court on his trial was about to plead

guilty, and there would accordingly be no need for him to direct the

gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this matter—what he had to say

respecting the gravity and even enormity of the offence he would

reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury on the

merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later

period of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally

returned a true bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen

from well-known burgesses of the town having been duly sworn.