'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 him