The Little Liver Pill departed with the message, to return with the information that the caller came with news of "that there moke."

"In that case, show him in," decided Peter.

The informant was a short, thick-set, bowlegged man, with features that had cunning stamped indelibly on every line. His watery blue eyes and stubbly grey moustache contrasted vividly with his reddish complexion, the colour of which reached its maximum intensity at the tip of his turned-up nose. "The straight tip, guv'ner, an' no questions axed," began the man, winking solemnly.

"What d'ye mean?" demanded Peter.

"Wot I says," replied the slightly inebriated one. "You offers in this 'ere paper a bloomin' quid to any bloke as gives information about your moke. 'Ere's the bloke--me. Na, 'ow abaht it?"

"Can you produce the animal?" asked Barcroft.

"Wot! Tike me fer a bloomin' conjurer? D'ye fink as 'ow I can make a bloomin' moke come outer me 'at like a rabbit?"

"In that case I don't think I'll trouble you any further," said Peter, placing his hand on the bell.

"'Old 'ard, guv'ner!" interrupted the man. "You mistakes my meanin.'

Wot I says is this, if you'll pardon my manner o' speech. I knows where your donkey is. A chap wot I owes a grudge to 'as pinched it.

You pay me the quid, I'll give you the straight tip, s'long as you don't bring my name inter it, an' there you are. You gets yer moke back agen an' it's a jimmy o' goblin well spent."

Peter considered the points raised. He felt disinclined to treat with the rascal. He might have telephoned for the police, but it was hardly a case of blackmail. Quite possibly at the threat of the law the fellow might be cowed; on the other hand he might shut up like an oyster. Again, the whole story might be a c.o.c.k-and-bull yarn with the idea of getting money.

"Very well," said Barcroft at length. "I agree. Now tell me where the animal is."

"Steady on, guv'ner," protested the man. "'Ow abaht it?--the quid, I means."

"I've promised," said Peter. "My word is your bond."

"Sooner 'ave the bra.s.s."

"When I regain possession of the animal," decided the lawful owner firmly. "You give me your name and address and directly I recover my property I will send you the money. You cannot reasonably expect me to trust you, an utter stranger, with a sovereign on the off-chance that I may get the animal back on the strength of your information.

In fact, rather than do so, I would let the donkey go. Now, make up your mind quickly. My time is precious."

The informer scratched the back of his head. "Look 'ere, guv'ner,"

he began. "I don't want to be 'ard on yer----"

"You won't, my man," interrupted Peter grimly. "Now, yes or no: which is it to be?"

"Orl right," exclaimed the man in a tone of virtuous resignation.

"I'll tell, only you might 'ave parted with that there quid on the nail. I won't give yer me name, but p'raps you won't object ter me a-comin' round an' collectin' the bra.s.s when you've got the moke back?"

To this Peter a.s.sented.

"You'll find the donkey at Bigthorpe," continued the fellow. "Third archway of the viaduct across Thorpe Beck--Stigler's the name o' the bloke wot pinched 'er, although she trotted into 'is father's place down in Barborough. Stigler's a bad 'un, so yer wants to be pretty fly or 'e'll be sellin' 'er to some one. That's the straight tip, guv'ner, an' don't you ferget it--third archway o' Thorpe Beck Viaduct. Supposin' I looks in fer that quid this day week?"

"Very good," agreed Peter, as he showed his visitor to the door. "By the bye, what sort of man is this Mr. Stigler?"

"I reckon as 'ow 'e's a bit of a bruiser," was the not unexpected reply.

When his caller had taken his departure Barcroft reviewed the situation. Bruiser or no bruiser Mr. Stigler had to be tackled, and Peter was not a man to be intimidated. He would go at once to Bigthorpe. But perhaps it would be as well to have some one with him. He thought of Philip Entwistle; he remembered his new-found friend remarking that he was not particularly busy.

Although he detested having to use the telephone--he would much rather have taken the trouble to go into Barborough to broach the matter, only time was of importance--Peter rang up the vet. The reply was to the effect that Mr. Entwistle was away from home and was not expected back until to-morrow.

"That's done it," muttered Barcroft, "I'll go alone."

It was normally a two hours' railway journey to Bigthorpe, a fairly large town in the East Riding of Yorkshire, but owing to various unforeseen delays the clocks were striking four when Peter reached his destination.

Having obtained direction from a porter as to the nearest way to Thorpe Beck Viaduct Peter walked out of the station, and to his surprise ran into the missing Andrew Norton.

"Hullo!" exclaimed the spy, somewhat guardedly, for he had to feel his ground. "I hardly expected to see you here."

"Nor did I," replied Peter extending his hand, which the other grasped with well-a.s.sumed cordiality.

"You've heard?"

"I've heard nothing."

"I wired to my housekeeper yesterday," explained the _soi-disant_ Norton. "Had a sort of nervous breakdown--complete loss of memory."

"The Zep. raid, I suppose?" asked Peter sympathetically.

"Yes, yes, precisely--the Zep. raid, confound it!" said the German hurriedly. "I remember the bombs dropping, and I ran, goodness knows where. Must have wandered about all night. Have some recollection of finding myself at a strange railway station. Eventually I arrived at Bigthorpe, not even remembering my name and address until I found my registration card in my pocket. Deuced useful things those cards.

However, since I was at Bigthorpe, I thought I would stay there a couple of days or so to restore my shattered nerves. Just back by the 4.38."

"Can you postpone your return for another day?" asked Peter. "I'm returning to-morrow. But perhaps I oughtn't to detain you, although everything's all right at The Croft."

"Is it?" asked the spy. "Thanks awfully. No. I'm afraid I can't stop here any longer."

"In that case I'll see you anon," said Peter. "Oh, while I think of it: where were you staying here? I know nothing about the place and must get a room at a comfortable hotel."

Von Eitelwurmer considered for a moment. He was not altogether sure that Barcroft was not "pulling his leg." Early that morning the "Trone" had arrived at a British port, and on landing the spy had successfully maintained the role of McDonald the repatriated prisoner from Eylau. He was now returning to Barborough, with a view to making careful inquiries as to whether it would be quite safe to return to his house at Tarleigh.

"Where was I staying?" repeated the spy. "At the 'Antelope.'

Wouldn't advise you, though. Not at all comfortable--catering rotten, rooms wretchedly cold and draughty. Well, _au revoir_, Barcroft. May look you up to-morrow night."

"Do," replied Peter cordially. "You know the time."

The question as to how he was to get the donkey home in the event of b.u.t.terfly being found had hardly occurred to her owner until Peter was in the train. In any case he could not hope to return that night. To-morrow he might make arrangements with the railway company. Meanwhile he must secure quarters at an hotel.

"I'll try the 'Antelope,'" he decided. "What's good enough for Norton ought to suit me. Fortunately I am not altogether unaccustomed to discomforts."

The exterior of the hotel rather belied his friend's disparaging remarks; the interior even more so. The place seemed replete with modern conveniences.

"I've been recommended by Mr. Andrew Norton, who has been staying here for the last three or four days," announced Peter. "I require a room."

"No gentleman of that name has been staying here, sir," replied the hotel clerk. "At least, not recently. Yes, sir, this is the only 'Antelope.' Perhaps you would like to see the registration papers?"

Peter examined the doc.u.ments. None were made out in the name of Andrew Norton, nor were any filled in in his handwriting.

"Perhaps I have made a mistake," he said. "But that is of little consequence. If you will let me have a room----"