“Good hand at excavation!” he said. “He’s thrown some stuff out already. He’d soon be deep into the bank at that rate if—hello!”
He suddenly stooped forward, pushed the dog aside and from the gravelly soil and loose sand that he had thrown up dragged forth an object which shone bright in the glare of the torch. With a sharp exclamation he held it up to Mr. Fransemmery.
“Look at that!” said Blick.
Mr. Fransemmery looked—and recoiled.
“Good Heavens!” he exclaimed. “A revolver!”
Blick straightened himself, and holding his find in his left hand, turned the full light of the electric torch on it.
“A Webley-Fosbery automatic pistol,” he said. “And—new! And thrown in there not so long ago! Mr. Fransemmery!—what if we’ve found the thing that caused Guy Markenmore’s death? I shouldn’t wonder!”
Mr. Fransemmery backed away into the lane.
“Is—is that loaded?” he asked nervously. “I beg you to be careful, my dear sir! I have the greatest horror——”
“You hold the torch,” interrupted Blick. “I’ll be careful: I know all about firearms.” He handed the electric torch to his companion, and with both hands free began to examine the mechanism of the automatic pistol. “Nothing in it,” he announced presently. “Not a single cartridge! But look you here, sir—this has not been in there long! Not a speck of rust—all bright, clean, fresh——”