bank people?" suggested Spargo.

Mr. Quarterpage shook his head.

"They're amongst the lot who believe that Chamberlayne did die," he
said. "They're very old-fashioned, conservative-minded people, the
Gutchbys and the Hostables, and they accepted the version of the
nephew, and the doctor, and the solicitor. But now I'll tell you
something about those three. There was a man here in the town, a
gentleman of your own profession, who came to edit that paper you've
got on your knee. He got interested in this Chamberlayne case, and he
began to make enquiries with the idea of getting hold of some
good--what do you call it?"

"I suppose he'd call it 'copy,'" said Spargo.

"'Copy'--that was his term," agreed Mr. Quarterpage. "Well, he took the
trouble to go to London to ask some quiet questions of the nephew,
Stephen. That was just twelve months after Chamberlayne had been
buried. But he found that Stephen Chamberlayne had left England--months
before. Gone, they said, to one of the colonies, but they didn't know
which. And the solicitor had also gone. And the doctor--couldn't be
traced, no, sir, not even through the Medical Register. What do you
think of all that, Mr. Spargo?"

"I think," answered Spargo, "that Market Milcaster folk are
considerably slow. I should have had that death and burial enquired
into. The whole thing looks to me like a conspiracy."

"Well, sir, it was, as I say, nobody's business," said Mr. Quarterpage.
"The newspaper gentleman tried to stir up interest in it, but it was no
good, and very soon afterwards he left. And there it is."

"Mr. Quarterpage," said Spargo, "what's your own honest opinion?"

The old gentleman smiled.

"Ah!" he said. "I've often wondered, Mr. Spargo, if I really have an
opinion on that point. I think that what I probably feel about the
whole affair is that there was a good deal of mystery attaching to it.
But we seem, sir, to have gone a long way from the question of that old
silver ticket which you've got in your purse. Now----"

"No!" said Spargo, interrupting his host with an accompanying wag of
his forefinger. "No! I think we're coming nearer to it. Now you've
given me a great deal of your time, Mr. Quarterpage, and told me a lot,
and, first of all, before I tell you a lot, I'm going to show you
something."

And Spargo took out of his pocket-book a carefully-mounted photograph
of John Marbury--the original of the process-picture which he had had
made for the _Watch