“Then, of course, the families who held the tickets looked upon them as heirlooms, to be taken great care of,” replied Mr. Quarterpage.  “They were dealt with as I dealt with mine—­framed on velvet, and hung up—­or locked away:  I am sure that anybody who had one took the greatest care of it.  Now, I said last night, over there at the ‘Dragon,’ that I could repeat the names of all the families who held these tickets.  So I can.  But here”—­the old gentleman drew out a drawer and produced from it a parchment-bound book which he handled with great reverence—­“here is a little volume of my own handwriting—­memoranda relating to Market Milcaster Races—­in which is a list of the original holders, together with another list showing who held the tickets when the races were given up.  I make bold to say, Mr. Spargo, that by going through the second list, I could trace every ticket—­except the one you have in your purse.”

“Every one?” said Spargo, in some surprise.

“Every one!  For as I told you,” continued Mr. Quarterpage, “the families are either in the town (we’re a conservative people here in Market Milcaster and we don’t move far afield) or they’re just outside the town, or they’re not far away.  I can’t conceive how the ticket you have—­and it’s genuine enough—­could ever get out of possession of one of these families, and—­”

“Perhaps,” suggested Spargo, “it never has been out of possession.  I told you it was found in the lining of a box—­that box belonged to a dead man.”

“A dead man!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage.  “A dead man!  Who could—­ah!  Perhaps—­perhaps I have an idea.  Yes!—­an idea.  I remember something now that I had never thought of.”

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.”