ruddy as a sun-warmed pippin; his hair was still only silvered; his
hand was steady as a rock. His clothes of buff-coloured whipcord were
smart and jaunty, his neckerchief as gay as if he had been going to a
fair. It seemed to Spargo that Mr. Quarterpage had a pretty long lease
of life before him even at his age.

Spargo, in his corner, sat fascinated while the old gentlemen began
their symposium. Another, making five, came in and joined them--the
five had the end of the bar-parlour to themselves. Mr. Quarterpage made
the punch with all due solemnity and ceremony; when it was ladled out
each man lighted his pipe or took a cigar, and the tongues began to
wag. Other folk came and went; the old gentlemen were oblivious of
anything but their own talk. Now and then a young gentleman of the town
dropped in to take his modest half-pint of bitter beer and to dally in
the presence of the barmaid; such looked with awe at the patriarchs: as
for the patriarchs themselves they were lost in the past.

Spargo began to understand what the damsel behind the bar meant when
she said that she believed she could write a history of Market
Milcaster since the year One. After discussing the weather, the local
events of the day, and various personal matters, the old fellows got to
reminiscences of the past, telling tale after tale, recalling incident
upon incident of long years before. At last they turned to memories of
racing days at Market Milcaster. And at that Spargo determined on a
bold stroke. Now was the time to get some information. Taking the
silver ticket from his purse, he laid it, the heraldic device
uppermost, on the palm of his hand, and approaching the group with a
polite bow, said quietly:

"Gentlemen, can any of you tell me anything about that?"




CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MR. QUARTERPAGE HARKS BACK


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."

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!"

Spargo made his best bow.

"Sir," he said, "I am greatly obliged by your kind invitation, and I
shall consider it an honour to wait upon you to the moment."

Accordingly, at five minutes to nine next morning, Spargo found himself
in an old-fashioned parlour, looking out upon a delightful garden, gay
with summer flowers, and being introduced by Mr. Quarterpage, Senior,
to Mr. Quarterpage, Junior--a pleasant gentleman of sixty, always
referred to by his father as something quite juvenile--and to Miss
Quarterpage, a young-old lady of something a little less elderly than
her brother, and to a breakfast table bounteously spread with all the
choice fare of the season. Mr. Quarterpage, Senior, was as fresh and
rosy as a cherub; it was a revelation to Spargo to encounter so old a
man who was still in possession of such life and spirits, and of such a
vigorous and healthy appetite.

Naturally, the talk over the breakfast table ran on Spargo's possession
of the old silver ticket, upon which subject it was evident Mr.
Quarterpage was still exercising his intellect. And Spargo, who had
judged it well to enlighten his host as to who he was, and had
exhibited a letter with which the editor of the _Watchman_ had
furnished him, told how in the exercise of his journalistic duties he
had discovered the ticket in the lining of an old box. But he made no
mention of the Marbury matter, being anxious to see first whither Mr.
Quarterpage's revelations would lead him.

"You have no idea, Mr. Spargo," said the old gentleman, when, breakfast
over, he and Spargo were closeted together in a little library in which
were abundant evidences of the host's taste in sporting matters; "you
have no idea of the value which was attached to the possession of one
of those silver tickets. There is mine, as you see, securely framed and
just as securely fastened to the wall. Those fifty silver tickets, my
dear sir, were made when our old race-meeting was initiated, in the
year 1781. They were made in the town by a local silversmith, whose
great-great-grandson still carries on the business. The fifty were
distributed amongst the fifty leading burgesses of the town to be kept
in their families for ever--nobody ever anticipated in those days that
our race-meeting would ever be discontinued. The ticket carried great
privileges. It made its holder, and all members of his family, male and
female, free of the stands, rings, and paddocks. It gave the holder
himself and his eldest son, if of age, the right to a seat at our grand
race banquet--at which, I may tell you, Mr. Spargo, Royalty itself has
been present in the good old days. Consequently, as you see, to be the
holder of a silver ticket was to be somebody."

"And when the race-meeting fell through?" asked Spargo. "What then?"

"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."

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 began to search amongst a mass of old
newspapers, carefully sorted into small bundles and tied up.

"If you had lived in Market Milcaster one-and-twenty years ago, Mr.
Spargo," he said, "you would have known who John Maitland was. For some
time, sir, he was the best-known man in the place--aye, and in this
corner of the world. But--aye, here it is--the newspaper of October
5th, 1891. Now, Mr. Spargo, you'll find in this old newspaper who John
Maitland was, and all about him. Now, I'll tell you what to do. I've
just got to go into my office for an hour to talk the day's business
over with my son--you take this newspaper out into the garden there
with one of these cigars, and read what'll you find in it, and when
you've read that we'll have some more talk."

Spargo carried the old newspaper into the sunlit garden.




CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

AN OLD NEWSPAPER


As soon as Spargo unfolded the paper he saw what he wanted on the
middle page, headed in two lines of big capitals. He lighted a cigar
and settled down to read.

"MARKET MILCASTER QUARTER SESSIONS

"TRIAL OF JOHN MAITLAND

"The Quarter Sessions for the Borough of Market Milcaster were held on
Wednesday last, October 3rd, 1891, in the Town Hall, before the
Recorder, Henry John Campernowne, Esq., K.C., who was accompanied on
the bench by the Worshipful the Mayor of Market Milcaster (Alderman
Pettiford), the Vicar of Market Milcaster (the Rev. P.B. Clabberton,
M.A., R.D.), Alderman Banks, J.P., Alderman Peters, J.P., Sir Gervais
Racton, J.P., Colonel Fludgate, J.P., Captain Murrill, J.P., and other
magistrates and gentlemen. There was a crowded attendance of the
public in anticipation of the trial of John Maitland, ex-manager of
the Market Milcaster Bank, and the reserved portions of the Court were
filled with the _élite_ of the town and neighbourhood, including a
considerable number of ladies who manifested the greatest interest in
the proceedings.

"The Recorder, in charging the Grand Jury, said he regretted that the
very pleasant and gratifying experience which had been his upon the
occasion of his last two official visits to Market Milcaster--he
referred to the fact that on both those occasions his friend the
Worshipful Mayor had been able to present him with a pair of white
gloves--was not to be repeated on the present occasion. It would be
their sad and regrettable lot to have before them a fellow-townsman
whose family had for generations occupied a foremost position in the
life of the borough. That fellow-townsman was charged with one of the
most serious offences known to a commercial nation like ours: the
offence of embezzling the moneys of the bank of which he had for many
years been the trusted manager, and with which he had been connected
all his life since his school days. He understood that the prisoner
who would shortly be put before the court on his trial was about to
plead guilty, and there would accordingly be no need for him to direct
the gentlemen of the Grand Jury on this matter--what he had to say
respecting the gravity and even enormity of the offence he would
reserve. The Recorder then addressed himself to the Grand Jury on the
merits of two minor cases, which came before the court at a later
period of the morning, after which they retired, and having formally
returned a true bill against the prisoner, and a petty jury, chosen
from well-known burgesses of the town having been duly sworn.

"JOHN MAITLAND, aged 42, bank manager, of the Bank House, High Street,
Market Milcaster, was formally charged with embezzling, on April 23rd,
1891, the sum of £4,875 10_s_. 6_d_., the moneys of his employers,
the Market Milcaster Banking Company Ltd., and converting the same to
his own use. The prisoner, who appeared to feel his position most
acutely, and who looked very pale and much worn, was represented by
Mr. Charles Doolittle, the well-known barrister of Kingshaven; Mr.
Stephens, K.C., appeared on behalf of the prosecution.

"Maitland, upon being charged, pleaded guilty.

"Mr. Stephens, K.C., addressing the Recorder, said that without any
desire to unduly press upon the prisoner, who, he ventured to think,
had taken a very wise course in pleading guilty to that particular
count in the indictment with which he stood charged, he felt bound,
in the interests of justice, to set forth to the Court some
particulars of the defalcations which had arisen through the
prisoner's much lamented dishonesty. He proposed to offer a clear and
succinct account of the matter. The prisoner, John Maitland, was the
last of an old Market Milcaster family--he was, in fact, he believed,
with the exception of his own infant son, the very last of the race.
His father had been manager of the bank before him. Maitland himself
had entered the service of the bank at the age of eighteen, when he
left the local Grammar School; he succeeded his father as manager at
the age of thirty-two; he had therefore occupied this highest position
of trust for ten years. His directors had the fullest confidence in
him; they relied on his honesty and his honour; they gave him
discretionary powers such as no bank-manager, probably, ever enjoyed
or held before. In fact, he was so trusted that he was, to all
intents and purposes, the Market Milcaster Banking Company; in other
words he was allowed full control over everything, and given full
licence to do what he liked. Whether the directors were wise in
extending such liberty to even the most trusted servant, it was not
for him (Mr. Stephens) to say; it was some consolation, under the
circumstances, to know that the loss would fall upon the directors,
inasmuch as they themselves held nearly the whole of the shares. But
he had to speak of the loss--of the serious defalcations which
Maitland had committed. The prisoner had wisely pleaded guilty to the
first count of the indictment. But there were no less than seventeen
counts in the indictment. He had pleaded guilty to embezzling a sum of
£4,875 odd. But the total amount of the defalcations, comprised in the
seventeen counts, was no less--it seemed a most amazing sum!--than
£221,573 8_s_. 6_d_.! There was the fact--the banking company had been
robbed of over two hundred thousand pounds by the prisoner in the dock
before a mere accident, the most trifling chance, had revealed to the
astounded directors that he was robbing them at all. And the most
serious feature of the whole case was that not one penny of this money
had been, or ever could be, recovered. He believed that the prisoner's
learned counsel was about to urge upon the Court that the prisoner
himself had been tricked and deceived by another man, unfortunately
not before the Court--a man, he understood, also well known in Market
Milcaster, who was now dead, and therefore could not be called, but
whether he was so tricked or deceived was no excuse for his clever and
wholesale robbing of his employers. He had thought it necessary to put
these facts--which would not be denied--before the Court, in order
that it might be known how heavy the defalcations really had been, and
that they should be considered in dealing with the prisoner.

"The Recorder asked if there was no possibility of recovering any part
of the vast sum concerned.

"Mr. Stephens replied that they were informed that there was not the
remotest chance--the money, it was said by prisoner and those acting
on his behalf, had utterly vanished with the death of the man to whom
he had just made reference.

"Mr. Doolittle, on behalf of the prisoner, craved to address a few
words to the Court in mitigation of sentence. He thanked Mr. Stephens
for the considerate and eminently dispassionate manner in which he had
outlined the main facts of the case. He had no desire to minimize the
prisoner's guilt. But, on prisoner's behalf, he desired to tell the
true story as to how these things came to be. Until as recently as
three years previously the prisoner had never made the slightest
deviation from the straight path of integrity. Unfortunately for him,
and, he believed, for some others in Market Milcaster, there came to
the town three years before the present proceedings, a man named
Chamberlayne, who commenced business in the High Street as a
stock-and-share broker. A man of good address and the most plausible
manners, Chamberlayne attracted a good many people--amongst them his
unfortunate client. It was matter of common knowledge that
Chamberlayne had induced numerous persons in Market Milcaster to
enter into financial transactions with him; it was matter of common
repute that those transactions had not always turned out well for
Chamberlayne's clients. Unhappily for himself, Maitland had great
faith in Chamberlayne. He had begun to have transactions with him in a
large way; they had gone on and on in a large way until he was
involved to vast amounts. Believing thoroughly in Chamberlayne and
his methods, he had entrusted him with very large sums of money.

"The Recorder interrupted Mr. Doolittle at this point to ask if he was
to understand that Mr. Doolittle was referring to the prisoner's own
money.

"Mr. Doolittle replied that he was afraid the large sums he referred
to were the property of the bank. But the prisoner had such belief in
Chamberlayne that he firmly anticipated that all would be well, and
that these sums would be repaid, and that a vast profit would result
from their use.

"The Recorder remarked that he supposed the prisoner intended to put
the profit into his own pockets.

"Mr. Doolittle said at any rate the prisoner assured him that of the
two hundred and twenty thousand pounds which was in question,
Chamberlayne had had the immediate handling of at least two hundred
thousand, and he, the prisoner, had not the ghost of a notion as to
what Chamberlayne had done with it. Unfortunately for everybody, for
the bank, for some other people, and especially for his unhappy
client, Chamberlayne died, very suddenly, just as these proceedings
were instituted, and so far it had been absolutely impossible to trace
anything of the moneys concerned. He had died under mysterious
circumstances, and there was just as much mystery about his affairs.

"The Recorder observed that he was still waiting to hear what Mr.
Doolittle had to urge in mitigation of any sentence he, the Recorder,
might think fit to pass.

"Mr. Doolittle said that he would trouble the Court with as few
remarks as possible. All that he could urge on behalf of the
unfortunate man in the dock was that until three years ago he had
borne a most exemplary character, and had never committed a dishonest
action. It had been his misfortune, his folly, to allow a plausible
man to persuade him to these acts of dishonesty. That man had been
called to another account, and the prisoner was left to bear the
consequences of his association with him. It seemed as if
Chamberlayne had made away with the money for his own purposes, and it
might be that it would yet be recovered. He would only ask the Court
to remember the prisoner's antecedents and his previous good conduct,
and to bear in mind that whatever his near future might be he was, in
a commercial sense, ruined for life.

"The Recorder, in passing sentence, said that he had not heard a
single word of valid excuse for Maitland's conduct. Such dishonesty
must be punished in the most severe fashion, and the prisoner must go
to penal servitude for ten years.

"Maitland, who heard the sentence unmoved, was removed from the town
later in the day to the county jail at Saxchester."

Spargo read all this swiftly; then went over it again, noting certain
points in it. At last he folded up the newspaper and turned to the
house--to see old Quarterpage beckoning to him from the library window.




CHAPTER NINETEEN

THE CHAMBERLAYNE STORY


"I perceive, sir," said Mr. Quarterpage, as Spargo entered the library,
"that you have read the account of the Maitland trial."

"Twice," replied Spargo.

"And you have come to the conclusion that--but what conclusion have you
come to?" asked Mr. Quarterpage.

"That the silver ticket in my purse was Maitland's property," said
Spargo, who was not going to give all his conclusions at once.

"Just so," agreed the old gentleman. "I think so--I can't think
anything else. But I was under the impression that I could have
accounted for that ticket, just as I am sure I can account for the
other forty-nine."

"Yes--and how?" asked Spargo.

Mr. Quarterpage turned to a corner cupboard and in silence produced a
decanter and two curiously-shaped old wine-glasses. He carefully
polished the glasses with a cloth which he took from a drawer, and set
glasses and decanter on a table in the window, motioning Spargo to take
a chair in proximity thereto. He himself pulled up his own elbow-chair.

"We'll take a glass of my old brown sherry," he said. "Though I say it
as shouldn't, as the saying goes, I don't think you could find better
brown sherry than that from Land's End to Berwick-upon-Tweed, Mr.
Spargo--no, nor further north either, where they used to have good
taste in liquor in my young days! Well, here's your good health, sir,
and I'll tell you about Maitland."

"I'm curious," said Spargo. "And about more than Maitland. I want to
know about a lot of things arising out of that newspaper report. I want
to know something about the man referred to so much--the stockbroker,
Chamberlayne."

"Just so," observed Mr. Quarterpage, smiling. "I thought that would
touch your sense of the inquisitive. But Maitland first. Now, when
Maitland went to prison, he left behind him a child, a boy, just then
about two years old. The child's mother was dead. Her sister, a Miss
Baylis, appeared on the scene--Maitland had married his wife from a
distance--and took possession of the child and of Maitland's personal
effects. He had been made bankrupt while he was awaiting his trial, and
all his household goods were sold. But this Miss Baylis took some small
personal things, and I always believed that she took the silver ticket.
And she may have done, for anything I know to the contrary. Anyway, she
took the child away, and there was an end of the Maitland family in
Market Milcaster. Maitland, of course, was in due procedure of things
removed to Dartmoor, and there he served his term. There were people
who were very anxious to get hold of him when he came out--the bank
people, for they believed that he knew more about the disposition of
that money than he'd ever told, and they wanted to induce him to tell
what they hoped he knew--between ourselves, Mr. Spargo, they were going
to make it worth his while to tell."

Spargo tapped the newspaper, which he had retained while the old
gentleman talked.

"Then they didn't believe what his counsel said--that Chamberlayne got
all the money?" he asked.

Mr. Quarterpage laughed.

"No--nor anybody else!" he answered. "There was a strong idea in the
town--you'll see why afterwards--that it was all a put-up job, and
that Maitland cheerfully underwent his punishment knowing that there
was a nice fortune waiting for him when he came out. And as I say, the
bank people meant to get hold of him. But though they sent a special
agent to meet him on his release, they never did get hold of him. Some
mistake arose--when Maitland was released, he got clear away. Nobody's
ever heard a word of him from that day to this. Unless Miss Baylis
has."

"Where does this Miss Baylis live?" asked Spargo.

"Well, I don't know," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "She did live in
Brighton when she took the child away, and her address was known, and I
have it somewhere. But when the bank people sought her out after
Maitland's release, she, too, had clean disappeared, and all efforts to
trace her failed. In fact, according to the folks who lived near her in
Brighton, she'd completely disappeared, with the child, five years
before. So there wasn't a clue to Maitland. He served his time--made a
model prisoner--they did find that much out!--earned the maximum
remission, was released, and vanished. And for that very reason there's
a theory about him in this very town to this very day!"

"What?" asked Spargo.

"This. That he's now living comfortably, luxuriously abroad on what he
got from the bank," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "They say that the
sister-in-law was in at the game; that when she disappeared with the
child, she went abroad somewhere and made a home ready for Maitland,
and that he went off to them as soon as he came out. Do you see?"

"I suppose that was possible," said Spargo.

"Quite possible, sir. But now," continued the old gentleman,
replenishing the glasses, "now we come on to the Chamberlayne story.
It's a good deal more to do with the Maitland story than appears at
first sight, I'll tell it to you and you can form your own conclusions.
Chamberlayne was a man who came to Market Milcaster--I don't know from
where--in 1886--five years before the Maitland smash-up. He was then
about Maitland's age--a man of thirty-seven or eight. He came as clerk
to old Mr. Vallas, the rope and twine manufacturer: Vallas's place is
still there, at the bottom of the High Street, near the river, though
old Vallas is dead. He was a smart, cute, pushing chap, this
Chamberlayne; he made himself indispensable to old Vallas, and old
Vallas paid him a rare good salary. He settled down in the town, and he
married a town girl, one of the Corkindales, the saddlers, when he'd
been here three years. Unfortunately she died in childbirth within a
year of their marriage. It was very soon after that that Chamberlayne
threw up his post at Vallas's, and started business as a stock-and-
share broker. He'd been a saving man; he'd got a nice bit of money with
his wife; he always let it be known that he had money of his own, and
he started in a good way. He was a man of the most plausible manners:
he'd have coaxed butter out of a dog's throat if he'd wanted to. The
moneyed men of the town believed in him--I believed in him myself, Mr.
Spargo--I'd many a transaction with him, and I never lost aught by
him--on the contrary, he did very well for me. He did well for most of
his clients--there were, of course, ups and downs, but on the whole he
satisfied his clients uncommonly well. But, naturally, nobody ever knew
what was going on between him and Maitland."

"I gather from this report," said Spargo, "that everything came out
suddenly--unexpectedly?"

"That was so, sir," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "Sudden? Unexpected? Aye,
as a crack of thunder on a fine winter's day. Nobody had the ghost of a
notion that anything was wrong. John Maitland was much respected in the
town; much thought of by everybody; well known to everybody. I can
assure you, Mr. Spargo, that it was no pleasant thing to have to sit on
that grand jury as I did--I was its foreman, sir,--and hear a man
sentenced that you'd regarded as a bosom friend. But there it was!"

"How was the thing discovered?" asked Spargo, anxious to get at facts.

"In this way," replied Mr. Quarterpage. "The Market Milcaster Bank is
in reality almost entirely the property of two old families in the
town, the Gutchbys and the Hostables. Owing to the death of his father,
a young Hostable, fresh from college, came into the business. He was a
shrewd, keen young fellow; he got some suspicion, somehow, about
Maitland, and he insisted on the other partners consenting to a special
investigation, and on their making it suddenly. And Maitland was caught
before he had a chance. But we're talking about Chamberlayne."

"Yes, about Chamberlayne," agreed Spargo.

"Well, now, Maitland was arrested one evening," continued Mr.
Quarterpage. "Of course, the news of his arrest ran through the town
like wild-fire. Everybody was astonished; he was at that time--aye, and
had been for years--a churchwarden at the Parish Church, and I don't
think there could have been more surprise if we'd heard that the Vicar
had been arrested for bigamy. In a little town like this, news is all
over the place in a few minutes. Of course, Chamberlayne would hear
that news like everybody else. But it was remembered, and often
remarked upon afterwards, that from the moment of Maitland's arrest
nobody in Market Milcaster ever had speech with Chamberlayne again.
After his wife's death he'd taken to spending an hour or so of an
evening across there at the 'Dragon,' where you saw me and my friends
last night, but on that night he didn't go to the 'Dragon.' And next
morning he caught the eight o'clock train to London. He happened to
remark to the stationmaster as he got into the train that he expected
to be back late that night, and that he should have a tiring day of it.
But Chamberlayne didn't come back that night, Mr. Spargo. He didn't
come back to Market Milcaster for four days, and when he did come back
it was in a coffin!"

"Dead?" exclaimed Spargo. "That was sudden!"

"Very sudden," agreed Mr. Quarterpage. "Yes, sir, he came back in his
coffin, did Chamberlayne. On the very evening on which he'd spoken of
being back, there came a telegram here to say that he'd died very
suddenly at the Cosmopolitan Hotel. That telegram came to his
brother-in-law, Corkindale, the saddler--you'll find him down the
street, opposite the Town Hall. It was sent to Corkindale by a nephew
of Chamberlayne's, another Chamberlayne, Stephen, who lived in London,
and was understood to be on the Stock Exchange there. I saw that
telegram, Mr. Spargo, and it was a long one. It said that Chamberlayne
had had a sudden seizure, and though a doctor had been got to him he'd
died shortly afterwards. Now, as Chamberlayne had his nephew and
friends in London, his brother-in-law, Tom Corkindale, didn't feel that
there was any necessity for him to go up to town, so he just sent off a
wire to Stephen Chamberlayne asking if there was aught he could do. And
next morning came another wire from Stephen saying that no inquest
would be necessary, as the doctor had been present and able to certify
the cause of death, and would Corkindale make all arrangements for the
funeral two days later. You see, Chamberlayne had bought a vault in our
cemetery when he buried his wife, so naturally they wished to bury him
in it, with her."

Spargo nodded. He was beginning to imagine all sorts of things and
theories; he was taking everything in.

"Well," continued Mr. Quarterpage, "on the second day after that, they