I calculated the revolver ought to be about fifteen inches underground. When the hole was a foot deep I stopped, and again appeared to listen to the invisible Spook.
“I forgot,” I said apologetically, “I am sorry.” Then, turning to Moïse, “We’ve forgotten the fourth element, Moïse! Hurry up! Get it!”
“Fourth element! I do not understand.”
“Oh, you ass!” I shouted. “We’ve had Air and Earth and Fire. We want the other one.”
“But what is it?” Moïse wailed.
“Water!” said Mundey. “Quick—a bucket of water!”
Moïse rushed into the house and brought out a pail of water. I took it from him and poured it into the hole. As the last drops soaked into the dry earth I breathed more freely. Any fresh mud or dampness on the revolver due to the re-muddying process would now be properly accounted for. I resumed the digging. A moment later the butt of the revolver came to light. With a wild yell I pointed at it, staggered, and “threw a faint.” It was a good faint—rather too good—not only did I cut my forehead open on a stone, but one of our own British orderlies who was not “in the know” ran out with a can of water and drenched me thoroughly. I was then carried by orderlies into the house and laid on my own bed.
Outside, the comedy was in full swing. When the revolver was found, neither the Cook nor the Interpreter worried for a moment about my condition. For all they cared I might have been dead. Without a glance in my direction, they let me lie where I had fallen, and seizing pick and shovel, began to dig like furies. If “the Treasure was by Arms guarded” surely it must be somewhere near those arms! They dug and they dug. They tore away the terrace wall. They made a hole big enough to hide a mule. The Sage, who lived in a room just above the rapidly growing crater, was roused from his meditations. He sallied forth and cross-examined Mundey.
“What—aw—have we here?” he asked. “What—aw—what nonsense is this?”
“Shut up, Sage,” said Mundey, fearful that the Pimple would overhear.