Spargo put a finger on the places indicated.
"Yes, that's so," he agreed. "Feels like two cards—a large and a small one. And the small one's harder than the other. Better cut that lining out, Rathbury."
"That," remarked Rathbury, producing a pen-knife, "is just what I'm going to do. We'll cut along this seam."
He ripped the lining carefully open along the upper part of the lining of the lid, and looking into the pocket thus made, drew out two objects which he dropped on his blotting pad.
"A child's photograph," he said, glancing at one of them. "But what on earth is that?"
The object to which he pointed was a small, oblong piece of thin, much-worn silver, about the size of a railway ticket. On one side of it was what seemed to be a heraldic device or coat-of-arms, almost obliterated by rubbing; on the other, similarly worn down by friction, was the figure of a horse.
"That's a curious object," remarked Spargo, picking it up. "I never saw anything like that before. What can it be?"
"Don't know—I never saw anything of the sort either," said Rathbury. "Some old token, I should say. Now this photo. Ah—you see, the photographer's name and address have been torn away or broken off—there's nothing left but just two letters of what's apparently been the name of the town—see. Er—that's all there is. Portrait of a baby, eh?"
Spargo gave, what might have been called in anybody else but him, a casual glance at the baby's portrait. He
