burton awoke the next morning with a consuming desire to go at once and look at selby. if it really had been he who had been guilty of that midnight attack, was it in human power for him to conceal all trace of his consciousness? burton recalled the note of warning which had been left for him at the clerk's desk, and afterwards abstracted from his room. selby lodged in the hotel, and had therefore the advantage of position. he could have come and gone without attracting attention. a stranger could not. certainly he must take a look at selby.

he found him at his desk in the rear of a large and crowded room which appeared to be a combined office and workroom. he looked up as burton entered, but scowled instead of nodding, and went on talking to a workman who was receiving instructions. burton merely nodded and took a chair to wait. selby gave him plenty of time for it. burton could not help feeling, after awhile, that he was being ignored for the express purpose of insult, and to remove the sting of the enforced waiting he got up and sauntered across the room to look at a collection of indian baskets, moccasins, and pipes, fastened against the wall. the specimens were of little intrinsic beauty and less commercial value, but burton knew something about indian basketry, and these examples of the common work of the mid-continent tribes interested him. more, they stirred some pulse of thought deep down in his mind. there was some connection,--something,--of which those baskets were trying to remind him. he stared at them so intently that he did not notice that the workman had finally departed, until selby pushed back his chair, rose, and grudgingly came over to where he stood.

"looking at my indian things?" he asked, with an uneasy assumption of civility.

"yes, they interest me. where did you get hold of them?"

"oh, just picked them up. i've been about among the indians a good deal."

"i've made a collection myself of the work of the aleutians," said burton, glad to find some abstract topic which would serve as a springboard for the intercourse which he meant to establish with mr. selby. "so naturally these things catch my eye. from the artistic standpoint they don't compare, of course, with the work of the alaskan indians, but they are good indications of the tribal development." as he talked he remembered suddenly the old indian woman at the station, and selby's rudeness. how he and selby had clashed at every meeting!

"where did you know the indians?"

"hereabouts. in the early days."

"right here? in high ridge?"

"high ridge wasn't on the map then. the indians lived all over this part of the country before the settlers came."

"and you really remember back to those days? it sounds very far back."

"twenty-five years will cover a good deal of history in this part of the country. high ridge has grown up inside of that time, and most of the people here don't know any more about indians than you do." the words were innocent enough, but there was an insolence in the tone that made burton feel that the ice of courtesy between them was thin as well as cool. he turned from the baskets and said abruptly:

"i suppose you heard that henry underwood's knife was found near the sprigg house."

"yes," said selby, looking at burton defensively under his eyebrows.

"it was the same knife you used to pry up the hearthstone with, the evening that your comrades(??) called on the doctor. you broke the point off you know. do you remember whether you gave the knife to henry or to the doctor when you left?" he tried to make his question sound casual.

"i gave it to henry," said selby deliberately.

"did something fix that fact in your memory?"

"do you mean that i am lying?" demanded selby aggressively.

"let us limit our discussion to what i am actually saying," said burton, with the access of politeness he was apt to assume when ruffled. "i merely wanted to know what your position would be in case any question is raised in regard to that knife. but probably it never will be."

"not just at present," said selby, with white lips. "the fool has his hands full enough for the present with the hadley outrage. when we are through with that, we will take up the sprigg matter. i rather think we can keep mr. underwood busy for some time to come."

"you have done pretty well in that direction up to this time," said burton, with a congratulatory smile. "i hope you will console yourself with that reflection when luck turns. we must all learn to bear reverses patiently." he smiled and bowed elaborately and left the office.

once outside, he reflected on his folly. "i am a blessed fool as a diplomat," he said to himself. "i seem unable to deny myself the pleasure of making him angry."

the sight of selby's curios had set his mind off on the thought of indians, and since he had nothing else to do he turned his steps to the railway station where he had seen the indian woman with her wares the day he arrived.

she was there again, and when burton stopped before her she looked up with a broad smile which might have meant recognition and gratitude, or might have meant simply commercial hopes.

"how!" she said, and burton responded "how!" then suddenly his eye caught something that made him bend over her wares in very real interest. the burden-basket in which her goods were stowed was a net-like bag, made of flexible thongs of hide, tied together with a peculiar knotting. it made him think of the uncommon knot that he had noticed in the cords that bound mr. hadley and in the cord that had fastened the lilac branches together about the baby. he was sufficiently expert in indian basketry to feel certain that it was the same knot, and that it was a peculiar and individual knot,--an adaptation of an old knot, undoubtedly, but none the less distinctly and recognizably original.

"did you make that basket?" he asked.

"nice," she said cheerfully, holding up a beaded basket of birch-bark.

"no, this big basket. how much?"

she giggled and tried to take it from him. evidently it had not been invoiced for sale. but burton wanted that and no other. he took a bill from his pocketbook, and, recovering forcible possession of the basket, laid the bill on her capacious knee.

"all right," he said authoritatively, and waited to see if she would confirm him. she took up the bill and put it away in her pocket. she might not understand the methods of the paleface, but she undoubtedly understood the language that his money spoke.

"who make this basket?" he asked, but this went into linguistic difficulties. she pattered something unintelligible, and hastily tied up her remaining wares in her shawl. burton tried in various ways to explain his meaning, but finally gave it up because she departed from his neighborhood with a haste that suggested fear on her part that he might repent him of his spendthriftiness and try to recover his money.

burton was left alone with his basket, and as he examined it his excitement grew. at last he had something positive,--something to work with. there was a definite clue in that indian basket. who in high ridge knew how to tie that peculiar knot? he must consult dr. underwood at once.

(incidentally, it was curious how all roads led inevitably to the red house.)