length Devine saw the twig bend downward for a moment
in his hands,

"You did that?" he asked sharply.

"No," said Weston in a strained voice, "I certainly did not."

"Let me take hold," said Devine, and when Weston handed the fork to
him he walked back a few paces and crossed the same spot again. The
fork, however, pointed straight in front of him. He threw it down and
said nothing, but Weston looked at him with a little grim smile.

"I've heard it said that anybody could do it, but that's not my
experience," he observed.

Devine's gesture might have expressed anything.

"Oh, we were both crazy when we started with Grenfell," he said.

Weston moved forward with the fork, and, while Devine looked on, the
stem once more inclined. It wavered, tilted downward a little farther,
and then slowly swung back to rest again. Still, Weston held on, and
when there was a further inclination it became clear that his
companion was convinced.

"The thing's picking up the trail!" he exclaimed.

For a time they wandered up and down the thicket, Weston apparently
directing his course by the spasmodic movements of the fork, which now
and then would lie still altogether. At length it commenced to jerk
sharply, and Devine looked at his companion in a curious manner.

"It's heading right back for Grenfell," he said in a hoarse whisper.

They went on until they almost reached the spot which they had left
more than an hour ago. Then the fork suddenly pointed straight
downward, and Weston stopped. His face was flushed, and his voice was
sharp and strained.

"Go and bring the shovel!" he said.

Devine strode into the bush, and Weston struggled through the
undergrowth to where Grenfell lay, scarcely a stone's throw away.
Stripping off his jacket, he laid it over the dead man to keep off the
flies. Then he went back and sat down with a dazed look in his eyes
until the surveyor broke out from among the trees with the shovel.

"Sit still," said Devine, "I'll go down the first foot or two,
anyway."

Weary as he was he plied the shovel savagely, flinging out the mould
in showers, but he was knee-deep in the hole before there was a clink
as the blade struck stones.

"Gravel. The water would work right through that," he said.

He toiled on until the hole was a yard in depth, but the gravel he
flung out was dry, and at length he stopped and sat on the side of the
excavation, gasping.

"Nothing yet," he said. "You're sure you struck