“The sand is very dry,” said Mr. Fransemmery, glancing at the mouth of the burrow. “And the gravel, too. Perhaps——”
“No!” said Blick. “If that had been there long, there’d have been at any rate some show of rust, at least a speck or two on the metal. Talk about luck! I feel inclined to give your dog a silver collar!”
“You attach great importance to this?” suggested Mr. Fransemmery.
“The greatest!” exclaimed Blick. “I should just think so! Why!—we’re within half a mile of the place where Guy Markenmore was shot dead with a pistol of some sort, and here is a pistol, an automatic pistol, which has obviously been thrown—quite recently—into a hole in the bank, behind bushes, in a lonely lane! Important? My dear sir!—it’s a clue!”
“We are close to my house,” observed Mr. Fransemmery. “Let us go there and consider the matter more fully. Bless me!—what a very remarkable discovery! It does, indeed, need deep and precise attention.”
“It’ll get it!” said Blick grimly. “First material clue I’ve struck.”
Mr. Fransemmery led the way to his house. At his door they were met by the trim parlourmaid.
“Mr. Chilford is waiting for you in the library, sir,” she said. “I told him I didn’t know how long you’d be out, but he said he must wait.”
Blick pulled Mr. Fransemmery’s sleeve as they entered the hall.
“Not a word about the automatic pistol!” he whispered. “Don’t want that to get out at all, yet. Look here—Chilford mightn’t want my presence; shall I go?”