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.