Suddenly he grasped the handles on the box again and, to the obbligato of the resultant humming, began moving along the base of the hill, moving the device to and fro as he went. The humming continued in the same even key. The trailing onlookers listened breathlessly — or perhaps their concentrated breathing merely gave that impression.
Ahead of the exploration lay a large slide of loose dirt brought down by recent rains. He neared it, and all at once the box’s tone slid up an octave. The Saint stopped; he moved the box to the right, away from the hill, and the tone dropped; he swung it toward the slide, and it climbed infinitesimally; he moved toward the slide, and the tone mounted until at the base of the fresh clods it was a banshee wail.
Simon Templar put down the box. In the ensuing sinusoidal silence, he jointed a small collapsible spade and poked tentatively in the dirt.
Suddenly he dived down with one hand, and came up with it held high, and between his thumb and forefinger glittered a tiny pea-sized grain of yellow.
“The Tattersall Prospector never makes a mistake,” he began in his best classroom manner. “I hold in my hand a small nugget of gold. Obviously, somewhere on the hillside above, we will find the source of this nugget. I predict—”
His words were lost in a yell as the small crowd, like one man, started up the steep bank toward the source of the slide. As Simon turned to stare at them, he found the big city observer at his elbow.
“Not good.” The large man shook his head. “If I were you, Professor, I’d get the hell out of here before those boys up there find out that you salted this slide.” He shook his head again. “I just remembered where I saw your face — and I expected something better from the Saint,” he said. “Listen — you may have been a hot shot in your own league, but you didn’t really expect to take Melville Rochborne into camp, did you?”
“It was always worth trying,” said the Saint sheepishly. He poked his spade into the slide and turned over the loose earth.
“All right, Mel,” he said. “You win this time. Have yourself a shoeshine on the house.”
And with a rather childish gesture he spilled a shovelful of dirt deliberately over Mr Rochborne’s shining pointed toes before he threw down the spade and turned away.