If Spargo had upset the old gentlemen’s bowl of punch—­the second of the evening—­or had dropped an infernal machine in their midst, he could scarcely have produced a more startling effect than that wrought upon them by his sudden production of the silver ticket.  Their babble of conversation died out; one of them dropped his pipe; another took his cigar out of his mouth as if he had suddenly discovered that he was sucking a stick of poison; all lifted astonished faces to the interrupter, staring from him to the shining object exhibited in his outstretched palm, from it back to him.  And at last Mr. Quarterpage, to whom Spargo had more particularly addressed himself, spoke, pointing with great empressement to the ticket.

“Young gentleman!” he said, in accents that seemed to Spargo to tremble a little, “young gentleman, where did you get that?”

“You know what it is, then?” asked Spargo, willing to dally a little with the matter.  “You recognize it?”

“Know it!  Recognize it!” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage.  “Yes, and so does every gentleman present.  And it is just because I see you are a stranger to this town that I ask you where you got it.  Not, I think, young gentleman, in this town.”

“No,” replied Spargo.  “Certainly not in this town.  How should I get it in this town if I’m a stranger?”

“Quite true, quite true!” murmured Mr. Quarterpage.  “I cannot conceive how any person in the town who is in possession of one of those—­what shall we call them—­heirlooms?—­yes, heirlooms of antiquity, could possibly be base enough to part with it.  Therefore, I ask again—­Where did you get that, young gentleman?”

“Before I tell you that,” answered Spargo, who, in answer to a silent sign from the fat man had drawn a chair amongst them, “perhaps you will tell me exactly what this is?  I see it to be a bit of old, polished, much worn silver, having on the obverse the arms or heraldic bearings of somebody or something; on the reverse the figure of a running horse.  But—­what is it?”

The five old men all glanced at each other and made simultaneous grunts.  Then Mr. Quarterpage spoke.

“It is one of the original fifty burgess tickets of Market Milcaster, young sir, which gave its holder special and greatly valued privileges in respect to attendance at our once famous race-meeting, now unfortunately a thing of the past,” he added.  “Fifty—­aye, forty!—­years ago, to be in possession of one of those tickets was—­was—­”

“A grand thing!” said one of the old gentlemen.

“Mr. Lummis is right,” said Mr. Quarterpage.  “It was a grand thing—­a very grand thing.  Those tickets, sir, were treasured—­are treasured.  And yet you, a stranger, show us one!  You got it, sir—­”

Spargo saw that it was now necessary to cut matters short.

“I found this ticket—­under mysterious circumstances—­in London,” he answered.  “I want to trace it.  I want to know who its original owner was.  That is why I have come to Market Milcaster.”