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 brass when you've got the moke back?"
To this Peter assented.
"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."