The question as to how he was to get the donkey home in the event of Butterfly 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 documents. 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----" Ten minutes later Barcroft was on his way to Thorpe Beck Viaduct. Altogether he could not form a satisfying solution to Norton's statement, until he came to the conclusion that in his excitable state of mind his friend had muddled up the names of two or more hotels. "By Jove! I will take the rise out of him when I see him again," he chuckled. "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 the lofty granite arches of which were utilised as cow-sheds and stables. No, Mr. Stigler was not there, so a halfwitted, deformed lad informed 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 the coast. Anybody at Scarby would tell him where old Joe Pattercough lived. Peter Barcroft rose to the occasion. Added difficulties only increased his determination to see the thing through. He decided to cancel his room at the "Antelope" and proceed by the first train to Tongby, the nearest station to the seaside hamlet of Scarby. CHAPTER XXII THE STRUGGLE ON THE CLIFFS "A MATTER O' fower moiles, sir," replied an old fisherman in answer to Peter's inquiry as to the way to Scarby. "That is, if you'll be taking t' cliff path, which I wouldn't advise you, seeing as 'ow you'm a stranger. 'Tain't pertickler safe is yon path. Follow the righthand road. 'Tis a bit roughish in parts, but main passable."