CHAPTER XXI
ON THE TRAIL
AT ten o'clock the following morning Peter Barcroft had a visitor.The announcement, delivered by Mrs. Carter, was greeted with a flowof forcible language.
"Tell the blithering idiot I can't see him now," shouted Mr.Barcroft. "I'm busy. He must call again in an hour's time."
The Little Liver Pill departed with the message, to return with theinformation 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 featuresthat had cunning stamped indelibly on every line. His watery blueeyes and stubbly grey moustache contrasted vividly with his reddishcomplexion, the colour of which reached its maximum intensity at thetip of his turned-up nose. "The straight tip, guv'ner, an' noquestions axed," began the man, winking solemnly.
"What d'ye mean?" demanded Peter.
"Wot I says," replied the slightly inebriated one. "You offers inthis 'ere paper a bloomin' quid to any bloke as gives informationabout 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 abloomin' moke come outer me 'at like a rabbit?"
"In that case I don't think I'll trouble you any further," saidPeter, 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 knowswhere 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 youdon't bring my name inter it, an' there you are. You gets yer mokeback agen an' it's a jimmy o' goblin well spent."
Peter considered the points raised. He felt disinclined to treatwith the rascal. He might have telephoned for the police, but it washardly a case of blackmail. Quite possibly at the threat of the lawthe fellow might be cowed; on the other hand he might shut up likean oyster. Again, the whole story might be a cock-and-bull yarn withthe idea of getting money.
"Very well," said Barcroft at length. "I agree. Now tell me wherethe animal is."
"Steady on, guv'ner," protested the man. "'Ow abaht it?--the quid, Imeans."
"I've promised," said Peter. "My word is your bond."
"Sooner 'ave the brass."
"When I regain possession of the animal," decided the lawful ownerfirmly. "You give me your name and address and directly I recover myproperty I will send you the money. You cannot reasonably expect meto trust you, an utter stranger, with a sovereign on the off-chancethat 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 upyour 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 thenail. I won't give yer me name, but p'raps you won't object ter mea-comin' round an' collectin' the brass when you've got the mokeback?"
To this Peter assented.
"You'll find the donkey at Bigthorpe," continued the fellow. "Thirdarchway of the viaduct across Thorpe Beck--Stigler's the name o' thebloke wot pinched 'er, although she trotted into 'is father's placedown in Barborough. Stigler's a bad 'un, so yer wants to be prettyfly 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 BeckViaduct. Supposin' I looks in fer that quid this day week?"
"Very good," agreed Peter, as he showed his visitor to the door. "Bythe bye, what sort of man is this Mr. Stigler?"
"I reckon as 'ow 'e's a bit of a bruiser," was the not unexpectedreply.
When his caller had taken his departure Barcroft reviewed thesituation. Bruiser or no bruiser Mr. Stigler had to be tackled, andPeter was not a man to be intimidated. He would go at once toBigthorpe. But perhaps it would be as well to have some one withhim. He thought of Philip Entwistle; he remembered his new-foundfriend remarking that he was not particularly busy.
Although he detested having to use the telephone--he would muchrather have taken the trouble to go into Barborough to broach thematter, only time was of importance--Peter rang up the vet. Thereply was to the effect that Mr. Entwistle was away from home andwas 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 fairlylarge town in the East Riding of Yorkshire, but owing to variousunforeseen delays the clocks were striking four when Peter reachedhis destination.
Having obtained direction from a porter as to the nearest way toThorpe Beck Viaduct Peter walked out of the station, and to hissurprise ran into the missing Andrew Norton.
"Hullo!" exclaimed the spy, somewhat guardedly, for he had to feelhis ground. "I hardly expected to see you here."
"Nor did I," replied Peter extending his hand, which the othergrasped with well-assumed 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 Germanhurriedly. "I remember the bombs dropping, and I ran, goodness knowswhere. Must have wandered about all night. Have some recollection offinding myself at a strange railway station. Eventually I arrived atBigthorpe, not even remembering my name and address until I found myregistration card in my pocket. Deuced useful things those cards.However, since I was at Bigthorpe, I thought I would stay there acouple of days or so to restore my shattered nerves. Just back bythe 4.38."
"Can you postpone your return for another day?" asked Peter. "I'mreturning to-morrow. But perhaps I oughtn't to detain you, althougheverything's all right at The Croft."
"Is it?" asked the spy. "Thanks awfully. No. I'm afraid I can't stophere any longer."
"In that case I'll see you anon," said Peter. "Oh, while I think ofit: where were you staying here? I know nothing about the place andmust get a room at a comfortable hotel."
Von Eitelwurmer considered for a moment. He was not altogether surethat Barcroft was not "pulling his leg." Early that morning the"Trone" had arrived at a British port, and on landing the spy hadsuccessfully maintained the role of McDonald the repatriatedprisoner from Eylau. He was now returning to Barborough, with a viewto making careful inquiries as to whether it would be quite safe toreturn to his house at Tarleigh.
"Where was I staying?" repeated the spy. "At the 'Antelope.'Wouldn't advise you, though. Not at all comfortable--cateringrotten, 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 ofButterfly being found had hardly occurred to her owner until Peterwas in the train. In any case he could not hope to return thatnight. To-morrow he might make arrangements with the railwaycompany. Meanwhile he must secure quarters at an hotel.
"I'll try the 'Antelope,'" he decided. "What's good enough forNorton ought to suit me. Fortunately I am not altogetherunaccustomed to discomforts."
The exterior of the hotel rather belied his friend's disparagingremarks; the interior even more so. The place seemed replete withmodern conveniences.
"I've been recommended by Mr. Andrew Norton, who has been stayinghere for the last three or four days," announced Peter. "I require aroom."
"No gentleman of that name has been staying here, sir," replied thehotel clerk. "At least, not recently. Yes, sir, this is the only'Antelope.' Perhaps you would like to see the registration papers?"
r /> Peter examined the documents. None were made out in the name ofAndrew Norton, nor were any filled in in his handwriting.
"Perhaps I have made a mistake," he said. "But that is of littleconsequence. If you will let me have a room----"
Ten minutes later Barcroft was on his way to Thorpe Beck Viaduct.Altogether he could not form a satisfying solution to Norton'sstatement, until he came to the conclusion that in his excitablestate of mind his friend had muddled up the names of two or morehotels.
"By Jove! I will take the rise out of him when I see him again," hechuckled. "Fancy putting up at the 'Pig and Whistle,' most likely,and imagining he was at the 'Antelope.' That's a great jape."
Presently he came in sight of the viaduct, the spaces between thelofty granite arches of which were utilised as cow-sheds andstables.
No, Mr. Stigler was not there, so a halfwitted, deformed ladinformed him. A donkey? Yes, there had been a donkey there. Mr.Stigler had sold it that afternoon to a pedlar living at Scarby.Where was Scarby? A matter of about ten miles and right on thecoast. Anybody at Scarby would tell him where old Joe Pattercoughlived.
Peter Barcroft rose to the occasion. Added difficulties onlyincreased his determination to see the thing through. He decided tocancel his room at the "Antelope" and proceed by the first train toTongby, the nearest station to the seaside hamlet of Scarby.