"I've seen a cigarette like this before," he averred. "They're Egyptian, see! 'Vafiadi, Cairo.' Who was it that I saw smoking one? Not Lieutenant Ingoldsby: not Captain Damant." He looked again at the monogram, and gave a long, low whistle of astonishment. "Oh, I know, I know now! Keep on digging, you chaps," he ordered. "Here you are, Seth. Findings are keepings."
He seized his spade and continued digging until his back ached and the perspiration rolled down his sunburnt cheeks. He moved from place to place in the trench, keeping it at a uniform depth. They had got below the dark soil to the soft sea sand.
"You're making it too wide, Mark," Darby objected.
Mark went down on his knees and began to sniff about.
"Don't you smell something?" he questioned, scratching at the sand with his hands. Then he pulled and tugged at something heavy. "Eureka!" he shouted. "Look here, Darby! Petrol! a tin of petrol! two tins—a whole lot of them!"
Darby leant over from the side of the trench and saw the exposed tops of a number of square red canisters.
"Enough to keep a motor-car going for a year," he declared.
"Yes," added Mark, "or a German submarine for a month."
"Why German?" Darby asked.
Mark laughed.