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
