“It’s one of the original silver stand tickets of the old racecourse at Market Milcaster,” answered Crowfoot.  “That’s what it is.  One of the old original silver stand tickets.  There are the arms of Market Milcaster, you see, nearly worn away by much rubbing.  There, on the obverse, is the figure of a running horse.  Oh, yes, that’s what it is!  Bless me!—­most interesting.”

“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’ll see if he’s alive.”