nteresting."

"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