“Why! It’s the air-gun!”
Sir Clinton’s flash-lamp suddenly shot out its glare; and in the cone of illumination they saw the grotesque figure of Ernest kneeling on the ground with the air-gun clutched in his hand. He rose to his feet laboriously.
“I’m soaking with that dew. Very heavy it’s been to-night. Wasn’t it a godsend that I had a spot of whisky just before coming out? That’ll keep a cold away. I’ll have another one—a whisky hot—when I get back again.”
Sir Clinton paid no attention to Ernest’s babble. He took the air-gun gingerly from its discoverer’s hand and held it out to Arthur in the glare of the flashlamp.
“One of the local armoury, I suppose?”
Arthur examined it for a moment.
“Yes, that’s one of ours.”
The honours of discovery, however, seemed destined to fall to Ernest.
“Here,” he demanded, “turn that light over this way, will you? There’s something round my foot.”
They could hear him kicking in the obscurity. Sir Clinton swung the beam round and stooped down.