hin,
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.