“If you mean did we set light to it to see if it would burn—no,” answered Mr. Grant. “Apart from that the indications were unmistakable.” “I’ll send a constable down to keep an eye on things,” decided the inspector. “I don’t think you’ll have any trouble when he’s about.” Mr. Grant thanked the police official and set off back to the boat. He was not at all easy in his mind. The situation in a nutshell was this: Some person or persons unknown had been guilty of a dastardly attempt to injure the lads under his care. Blueskin might be, and probably was, innocent of any knowledge of the matter. The miscreant might be a homicidal lunatic or a person harbouring an imaginary grudge against the crew of the _Kestrel_. The Scoutmaster was within fifty yards of Carlo Bone’s cottage when the toe of his boot kicked against a metallic object hidden in the long grass by the side of the path. He stopped and pulled aside the shoots. There, with one end overhanging a shallow dry ditch, was a garden syringe. The brasswork was dull, but not tarnished. The rim of the jet-nozzle was fairly bright, showing that at no distant date someone had had to use considerable force to remove it from the threaded end of the barrel. Cautiously Mr. Grant removed the plunger and smelt the inside of the barrel. There were no fumes of petrol, but—significant fact—the leather washer, which usually is well saturated with oil, was bone dry. Had the syringe been used for squirting water the leather would have retained its dampness. Mr. Grant’s next step was to go to the “Dog and Gun,” and ask for Silas Pescold, the landlord. Silas was a respected man in the little village, and one who would be likely to identify the syringe. He did without hesitation. “Sure, zur,” he exclaimed. “Yes, Dick Marner’s. Many’s the time I’ve borried et of him.” “Marner? That’s the man who walks lame, doesn’t he?” “Yes, zur; ’e broke ’is thigh come twenty year agone aboard the old _Sarah_. Sin’ then, seeing as ’e’s no good in the boats, ’e’s been doin’ odd gardenin’ jobs for the quality hereabouts. Like as not you’ll find him up-along. ’E lives in t’end cottage past the quay.” The end cottage past the quay! It was in this direction that the miscreant had made off when Peter Craddock interrupted his operations. Marner was at home. It was one of his bad days. The easterly wind generally affected his damaged hip. “Is this your property?” asked Mr. Grant, holding up the syringe for inspection. “Sure, ’tes, zur,” assented the old chap without hesitation. “If you’m wishful tu borrer ut you’m kindly welcome.” “I haven’t come to borrow it, Mr. Marner,” rejoined Mr. Grant. “I’m here to return it to you. I found it up the lane. Silas Pescold told me it was yours.” The old man puckered up his eye in astonishment. “Found ’ut up-along, did ’e, zur?” he exclaimed. “That be tur’ble queer, seein’ as I locked ut in the shed las’ night.” “At about what time?” “Afore it wur dark, zur.”