Mr. Quarterpage slowly looked round the circle of faces.

“Wonderful!” he said.  “Wonderful!  He found this ticket—­one of our famous fifty—­in London, and under mysterious circumstances.  He wants to trace it—­he wants to know to whom it belonged!  That is why he has come to Market Milcaster.  Most extraordinary!  Gentlemen, I appeal to you if this is not the most extraordinary event that has happened in Market Milcaster for—­I don’t know how many years?”

There was a general murmur of assent, and Spargo found everybody looking at him as if he had just announced that he had come to buy the whole town.

“But—­why?” he asked, showing great surprise.  “Why?”

“Why?” exclaimed Mr. Quarterpage.  “Why?  He asks—­why?  Because, young gentleman, it is the greatest surprise to me, and to these friends of mine, too, every man jack of ’em, to hear that any one of our fifty tickets ever passed out of the possession of any of the fifty families to whom they belonged!  And unless I am vastly, greatly, most unexplainably mistaken, young sir, you are not a member of any Market Milcaster family.”

“No, I’m not,” admitted Spargo.  And he was going to add that until the previous evening he had never even heard of Market Milcaster, but he wisely refrained.  “No, I’m certainly not,” he added.

Mr. Quarterpage waved his long pipe.

“I believe,” he said, “I believe that if the evening were not drawing to a close—­it is already within a few minutes of our departure, young gentleman—­I believe, I say, that if I had time, I could, from memory, give the names of the fifty families who held those tickets when the race-meeting came to an end.  I believe I could!”

“I’m sure you could!” asserted the little man in the loud suit.  “Never was such a memory as yours, never!”

“Especially for anything relating to the old racing matters,” said the fat man.  “Mr. Quarterpage is a walking encyclopaedia.”

“My memory is good,” said Mr. Quarterpage.  “It’s the greatest blessing I have in my declining years.  Yes, I am sure I could do that, with a little thought.  And what’s more, nearly every one of those fifty families is still in the town, or if not in the town, close by it, or if not close by it, I know where they are.  Therefore, I cannot make out how this young gentleman—­from London, did you say, sir?”

“From London,” answered Spargo.

“This young gentleman from London comes to be in possession of one of our tickets,” continued Mr. Quarterpage.  “It is—­wonderful!  But I tell you what, young gentleman from London, if you will do me the honour to breakfast with me in the morning, sir, I will show you my racing books and papers and we will speedily discover who the original holder of that ticket was.  My name, sir, is Quarterpage—­Benjamin Quarterpage—­and I reside at the ivy-covered house exactly opposite this inn, and my breakfast hour is nine o’clock sharp, and I shall bid you heartily welcome!”