n centuries before its now more popular and
important neighbouring boroughs gained theirs, and in his own opinion
the discontinuance of his symbols of office would have been little less
serious than the sale of the Mayor's purple robe and chain of solid
gold: Spizey, thus attired, was Hathelsborough. And, as he was not slow
to remind awe-stricken audiences at his favourite tavern, Mayors,
Aldermen and Councillors were, so to speak, creatures of the moment--the
Mayor, for example, was His Worship for twelve months and plain Mr.
Chipps the grocer ever after--but he, Spizey, was a Permanent
Institution, and not to be moved.

Spizey was on his way to his favourite tavern now, to smoke his
pipe--which it was beneath his dignity to do in public--and drink his
glass amongst his cronies, but he stopped to exchange the time of day
with Bunning, whom he regarded with patronizing condescension, as being
a lesser light than himself. And having remarked that this was a fine
evening, after the usual fashion of British folk, who are for ever
wasting time and breath in drawing each other's attention to obvious
facts, he cocked one of his small eyes at the stairs behind the iron
gates.

"Worship up there?" he asked, transferring his gaze to Bunning.

"Just gone up," answered Bunning. "Five minutes ago."

The Mace-Bearer looked up the market-place, down River Gate and along
Meadow Gate. Having assured himself that there was nobody within fifty
yards, he sank his mellow voice to a melodious whisper, and poked
Bunning in the ribs with a pudgy forefinger.

"Ah!" he said confidingly. "Just so! Again! Now, as a Corporation
official--though not, to be sure, of the long standing that I am--what
do you make of it?"

"Make of what?" demanded the caretaker.

Spizey came still nearer to his companion. He was one of those men who
when disposed to confidential communication have a trick of getting as
close as possible to their victims, and of poking and prodding them.
Again he stuck his finger into Bunning's ribs.

"Make of what, says you!" he breathed. "Ay, to be sure! Why, of all this
here coming up at night to the Moot Hall, and sitting, all alone, in
that there Mayor's Parlour, not to be disturbed by nobody, whosomever!
What's it all mean?"

"No business of mine," replied Bunning. "Nor of anybody's but his own.
That is, so far as I'm aware of. What about it?"

Spizey removed his three-cornered hat, took a many-coloured handkerchief
o