"I don't take it seriously," said Peter. "It may be genuine. Billy handed it to me just as the train was leaving the station. He had no time to explain. Usual family failing, I suppose--leaving things to the last minute." Entwistle made no reply to his companion's remarks. He was thinking deeply, trying to piece together certain items that had already been brought to his notice. "I won't tell him just yet," he soliloquised. "Must make sure of my ground first." After tea Entwistle drove away, ostensibly to visit a farmer at Windyhill. As a matter of fact he stopped at the Waterloo Hotel, retired to a private room and made a careful copy of the document he had annexed from The Croft. "So that's how they communicate with him," he mused. "Simple solution when you've been given the tip. The next point is: how does he convey his information to them?" Late that night Entwistle returned from Windyhill by a loop route that passed within half a mile of The Croft. Driving his car off the road and on to a patch of waste land he extinguished the lights. This done he walked over the moor to The Croft, opened the unlatched window, entered the house and replaced the borrowed document. 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?" "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.