“Pho!” he exclaimed. “A badger, certainly! No mistaking the rank odour—quite different to that of a fox. But he won’t be there now, my boy! Badgers go abroad soon after it’s dark, on the search for roots, and insects, and frogs, and the larvae of wasps and bees. Come away, Tinker!” But the Airedale went on digging, and Blick watched him with interest, keeping the glare of his electric torch on the mouth of the burrow. “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——” “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.