Then, conscious of a good day's work accomplished, he went home, to gather up the tangled skeins of the complicated task in hand.
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 flow of 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 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?"