For twenty minutes they worked, and then, just as French was coming to the conclusion that a daylight descent into the well would be necessary, the hooks caught. Something of fair weight was on the line.
“Let it stay till it stops swinging, or else we shall lose the hooks in the wall, Mr. French,” the sergeant advised, now as keenly interested as was French himself.
“Right, Sergeant. The water will soon steady it.”
After a few seconds, French began to pull slowly up, the drops from the attached object echoing loudly up the long funnel. And then came into the circle of the sergeant’s torch a man’s coat.
It was black and sodden and shapeless from the water, and slimy to the touch. They lifted it round the well so that the wall should be between them and the house and examined it with their electric torches.
In the breast pocket was a letter case containing papers, but it was impossible to read anything they bore. A pipe, a tobacco pouch, a box of matches, and a handkerchief were in the other pockets.
Fortunately for French, there was a tailor’s tab sewn into the lining of the breast pocket and he was able to make out part of the legend: “R. Shrubsole & Co., Newton Abbot.” Beneath was a smudge which had evidently been the owner’s name, but this was undecipherable.
“We’ll get it from the tailor,” French said. “Let’s try the hooks again.”
Once again they lowered their line, but this time without luck.
“No good,” French declared at last. “We’ll have to pump it out. You might get the depth, and then close up and leave it as we found it. We’d better bring a portable pump, for I don’t suppose that old thing will work.”