that afternoon, following a hint from ralston, burton made a point of interviewing watson, the chief of police, on the subject of the old high ridge disturbances which had been laid at henry underwood's door. he found it a sore subject. watson was a decent fellow and disposed to be fair-minded, but henry underwood was a red rag to him. the way in which the police force had been defied and outwitted in the former outbreak was not likely to soften their attitude toward the culprit in the present case. the hope of proving henry guilty was evidently dear to the official heart, and burton departed, feeling that there was no help to be looked for in that direction. the rigor of the law was all that the underwood family could expect. it was evening before he found the time and opportunity to take his basket to the red house. mrs. bussey did not appear. instead, it was leslie herself who admitted him, and conducted him to the surgery.

"see what a bargain i have found," said burton, displaying his purchase.

the doctor gave it a casual glance. "an indian basket, isn't it? and not a very good one."

"a very good--for my purpose. i wish i had another. do you know any one in town who could weave one for me?"

"no, i'm afraid not." the doctor made an obvious effort to respond to his guest's trivial interests.

"are there any indians living in or near town?"

"no. they were all corralled on the reservation years ago. there is a squaw who comes down from the reservation to sell beadwork and things like that on the streets, but she is the only one i ever see nowadays."

"yes, i got this basket from her today. but i want a mate to it. is there any one in town who can weave in the indian fashion?"

"i don't know of any one."

"would you know if there were any one? excuse the persistence of a tourist and a faddist!"

underwood aroused himself to a more genuine interest. "why, if it is a matter that you have your heart set upon, i certainly should be glad to give you any information possible. but i don't believe there is any one in town who makes any attempt at that sort of work, or takes any interest in it. i should certainly know if any one made a profession of it, or even had a well-developed fad for it, to use your own word. why? is the basket rare?"

"i have never seen that particular knot before. what's more, i didn't know that the mid-continent indians did that sort of weaving at all. i should guess that it is the work of some one individual weaver and possibly those who have learned from her. do you know any one in town who has a personal acquaintance with the indians?"

the doctor smiled whimsically. "our dear and cherished friend selby has a first-hand acquaintance with them. when i first came to high ridge, it was just a frontier settlement. the indians were the free lances of the state. they still hunted in the northern woods with much of their original freedom, and they came to town to do their trading and to get what they wanted by a sort of proud and independent begging that came near to having the ethical weight of natural law. how could you refuse a fellow mortal a paper of tobacco when he came and took it out of your pocket? to take it back with a dignity matching his own was something that required more ancestral training in dignity than most of us had. all the men that had a love for hunting came sooner or later to pick out some indian who would act as scout and show him the best trails. there's an attraction about that sort of life."

"and selby was one of them?"

"more than any of us. selby and old man bussey antedate my time. they were here when there was only a beginning of a town, and it was mostly wild country. bussey was a born bohemian who lived among the indians for years like one of themselves. even after he was married, he would go off for the whole summer, leaving his wife and the kid to shift for themselves. sometimes he took ben along, and mrs. bussey would come around and work for mrs. underwood."

"you linked selby and bussey together. did he go among them also?"

"he often went off with bussey, but he went for the trades he could make, rather than for any innocent purpose like hunting. he was a mere boy when he began selling them calicoes warranted to fade in the first wash in exchange for muskrat and beaver skins. and he cheated them when he could, at that."

"did he take any interest in indian basketmaking?"

"i'm sure i don't know. old man bussey could probably have woven your basket for you and put in some extra kinks of his own in addition, but i never paid much attention to that sort of thing,--old squaw's work!"

"i hope to convince you of its value and importance. if i went up to the reservation, should i find any of those old neighbors of yours?"

"you might, and you might not. the indians do not live to be old under the conditions of life that the white man provides for them. but it is more than probable that some of them are still alive."

"what does selby pay ben bussey for that woodcarving he buys?" burton asked abruptly.

"i don't know," said the doctor, with a look of helpless surprise.

"you think my questions irrelevant," smiled burton. "i was wondering if selby cheated ben as he used to cheat the indians."

"oh, i guess not. if he didn't take ben's work, i don't know who would, in high ridge. there isn't much demand for that sort of thing. i have always felt that selby made a market for ben out of old friendship."

"that's an amiable trait which i should hate to discover in mr. selby. it would be so lonesome. i wonder if it is friendship."

"well, say merely old acquaintance, then. selby as a boy was out and about with bussey, and they naturally would have come to have a feeling of comradeship. then ben grew up, and selby took him about as ben's father had taken him before. especially after bussey disappeared. ben was a sort of a waif, and selby took him along in his trips into the back country. i have no doubt he made him work for his keep, all right."

"then ben would be likely to know whether selby learned weaving from the indians, wouldn't he?" exclaimed burton. "that's the way to find out! can i talk to ben bussey?"

"certainly. he sees people whenever he likes. that back part of the house, over the kitchen, is given over to them, and they are as independent there as if they lived in their own house. but why are you so curious about selby's indian experiences? if one is to believe gossip, he had more experiences than he would care to have remembered against him nowadays. but you are not inquiring into his morals?"

"no, merely his skill." he hesitated a moment, and then explained. "i don't want to raise any false hopes, but i have an idea that the person who tied mr. hadley in his bed and who braided the lilac branches together over the sprigg baby had learned weaving from the same squaw who wove this basket i bought today. it's a peculiar knot,--not at all a common one in such weaving, so far as i am acquainted with it."

the doctor looked serious. "i wonder! unquestionably selby might have learned indian weaving. but--"

"that wouldn't prove very much. no, but it would be something. suppose you ask mrs. bussey to take me up to see ben. his woodcarving will supply a reason for my visit. and incidentally i'll find out what selby pays him."

mrs. bussey was obviously both surprised and flattered at the request that she conduct this important visitor to her son's room. she had evidently taken dr. underwood's chaffing use of the title "doctor" in good earnest, and insisted upon regarding burton as a famous physician.

"you can't do nothing for ben, doctor," she said, pursing up her lips and shaking her head. "he's that bad nobody can do anything for him. henry underwood done for him all right."

he found ben bussey in a wheeled chair near a window which in the daytime must command a pleasant view of the garden. he was a heavy-featured young man, somewhat gaunt and hollow-eyed from his confinement, but nowise repulsive. his lower limbs were wrapped in an afghan, but his hands, which held a piece of wood and his knife, were strong and capable looking. a table with the material for his work was drawn up beside his chair.

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"he found ben bussey in a wheeled chair near a window." page 200

"dr. underwood happened to mention that you did woodcarving," burton said, drawing up a chair for himself, "and i asked if i might come up and see it. i'm interested in things of that sort. that's good work you are doing. how did you come to learn carving?"

"just picked it up," ben answered. he was looking at his visitor with an air of quiet indifference, as though the comings and goings of other people could have nothing vital to do with his isolated life.

"ben's real smart with his hands," said mrs. bussey proudly.

"do you find any market for your carving?"

"selby takes it."

"selby the contractor," explained mrs. bussey. "sometimes people want hand-carved mantels and cornishes, and things like that. he makes quite a bit that way, ben does."

"i won't unless i want to," drawled ben.

"does selby come here with his orders?"

ben looked at him with a slow, peculiar smile. "i can't very well go to him."

"i asked, because i had an impression that he was not on very friendly terms with the underwood family, and i wondered if he would come to their house to see you."

"he don't see none of them," said mrs. bussey, with a lofty air. "he can come in by the side door and right off here to ben's room. the doctor says as ben and i shall have this part of the house for our own, and little enough, too, seeing what henry done to ben."

"is selby an old friend of yours?"

"guess we've known him as long as anybody. when my old man was alive, he used to take ort selby out into the woods hunting and trapping with the indians. he was great for that, my man was."

ben looked at his mother with a satirical smile. "he wasn't great for much of anything else, was he?"

"that's not for you to say," she retorted sharply. "here you lay, and have everything done for you. you needn't say anything agin your dad."

ben picked up his tool and board in contemptuous silence.

"that was before the indians were put on a reservation, wasn't it?" asked burton.

"yes."

"how did they live? by hunting and fishing?"

"yes."

"anything else? did they do any kind of work like carving?"

"redstone pipes, and things like that."

"and baskets?"

"birch-bark baskets. to sell."

"other baskets, too, didn't they? i have a lot of indian baskets at home."

"not from here," said ben.

"no, you are right about that. but today i saw some baskets an indian woman was selling at the station. they are made at the reservation, aren't they?"

ben looked up with the first sign of real interest he had shown. "that was pahrunta. she comes down sometimes to sell the baskets that her mother makes. her mother is ehimmeshunka. she came from another tribe,--many moons away, they said. she was stolen, i guess. she makes baskets like the western indians, not like the indians here."

"you have seen her working, then?"

"yes."

"was that when you were with selby?"

"yes. my dad was chummy with washitonka,--brothers, they called each other. ehimmeshunka was washitonka's squaw."

"did selby learn how to make baskets like ehimmeshunka?" asked burton. immediately he regretted that he had put the question so bluntly, for a surprised question came into ben's face. he fixed his somber eyes on burton for a moment before he answered curtly: "no."

and burton knew at once that the answer was merely prompted by a desire to shut off questioning! he tried to turn the conversation into another channel.

"is that work you are doing an order?"

"yes."

"what is it for?"

"bookcase."

"what does selby pay you for a piece of work like that?"

ben did not open his lips to reply. he merely looked at burton with a gaze like a blank wall.

"unless he pays you a fair price," burton continued, "i might be able to do something for you in some place where there is more demand for that sort of work."

an unmistakable gleam of interest came into ben's eyes, though he did not answer. but mrs. bussey answered for him.

"do you hear that, ben? he'll get you better prices. i told you all along that selby wasn't paying you enough."

"what does he pay for a piece of work like this?"

"whatever he likes," said ben morosely. burton saw that he had touched a sensitive spot.

"one dollar,--two dollars, maybe. if he feels 'good.'"

"and then he doesn't pay what he says he will," added mrs. bussey. "it's always come next week, and wait a little."

"why, that's absurd! i'm sure i can get you ten to twenty times that for it. may i see it?"

ben dropped the piece of wood he held, and burton picked it up. it was intended for a panel in the side of a bookcase, and the design was cut out in low relief. it was a spirited sketch of an indian with a bent bow drawn up to his shoulder.

"that's good," said burton, in frank admiration. "awfully good. did you copy it or design it yourself?"

"just made it up."

"what is he shooting at?"

the answer was startling, in view of burton's theory of the situation. ben glanced at him with a smile that held some hidden meaning. "selby says he is shooting at the brave that has stolen his squaw." then he lapsed back into his former attitude of somber indifference. "i think he is just shooting for fun," he added carelessly.

"can selby shoot?" asked burton, trying to draw the conversation around again to the subject of selby's indian schooling.

ben lifted himself on his elbow and looked up into burton's face with a grin of malicious amusement. "not very well," he said, and opened his mouth in a silent laugh that struck burton as somehow horrible. was it possible that he connected the shot through burton's window, which had been talked of merely as an accident, with selby?

"what makes you laugh?" he asked abruptly.

but ben would not talk. he turned his head away with a gesture of weariness that aroused burton's conscience.

"i mustn't tire you now, but i'll see you again before i leave. i think i can help you to get a better market for your work. is there anything you want now?"

"no. only to be let alone," said ben, without looking at him. he spoke so indifferently that it was impossible to charge him with intentional rudeness. the natural man was expressing himself naturally. burton suppressed an apology as he took his leave.

the door of the surgery was open when he came down the stairs to the back hall, and dr. underwood, keen-eyed and eager, with a crutch under his arm, stood in the doorway.

"well," he asked. "what have you discovered?"

burton pushed him gently inside the room and shut the door.

"for one thing, i have discovered that it isn't safe to talk secrets in this house unless you know where mrs. bussey is," he laughed.

"yes, she's an inveterate eavesdropper, i know. but we have no secrets to discuss, so i haven't minded. she has the mother-instinct to purvey for her helpless young,--gossip or food or anything else she may think will be acceptable. she wants to keep ben interested, that's all."

"perhaps that's all. but she has so much to do with selby that it makes me uncomfortable for her to hear my casual remarks about him. i couldn't get what i wanted from ben. he shied off at once when i asked if selby had learned indian weaving. i have decided to go up to the reservation to find out."

"really?" exclaimed the doctor, in obvious surprise. "you attach so much importance to this--idea of yours?"

"it is the only definite and positive clue i have found yet, and i am going to follow it out. i am satisfied that selby hates your son. so does the mysterious unknown. the unknown unconsciously ties his knots in a very peculiar manner which he must have learned among the indians. selby has had the opportunity to learn from the indians. there are two steps taken."

"yes," mused the doctor thoughtfully.

"is there any one else more likely?" asked burton. "have you any enemies? discharged servants, for instance?"

"no."

"professional rivals?"

"if there is any poor devil of a doctor so unfortunate as to envy my degree of success, let him go ahead with his revenge. he needs all the barren consolation he can get."

"then you really have no suspicion to better my own?"

the doctor shook his head. "i have believed it to be henry," he said simply.

"not the hold-up?"

"even that might have been,--though i confess that was the first event that gave me hope, because it gave me a doubt."

"then i hold to my theory. did selby hold himself up, and afterwards, with mrs. bussey's connivance, get access to your surgery and hide his chain here under the hearth and his handkerchief behind your books? does he write those typewritten accusations on your machine while mrs. bussey plays sentry? in that case, instead of being a short-sighted proceeding, as i at first thought, it is rather deep. the first intelligent investigation would throw suspicion upon henry, who of course would have access to your room. in short, does selby supply the venom, and mrs. bussey the easy, ignorant and vindictive tool? that's what is occupying my mind at present."

"jumping jerusalem!" gasped dr. underwood. "aren't there some more tenable hypotheses that you have overlooked? have you given due consideration to the possibility that ben may be the son of an earl, stolen in childhood, with a strawberry mark on his arm, and henry my first wife in disguise, and that i--oh, i can't think of anything that would not be an anticlimax to your imaginative effort. what do you do for mental exercise when you are at home?"

but burton refused to be diverted.

"i am willing to accept any other theory, but i am determined that the mystery shall be named and known. the police don't seem equal to it. i never had any experience in this direction, and i am not over-confident of my own abilities, but i am better than nothing, and i am going to do something,--something absurd, or futile, quite possibly, but at any rate something."

"if you succeed," said dr. underwood quietly, "you will have lifted the curse from my life and such a load from my heart as i pray you may never have to carry for an hour. if i were a king of the old style, i'd say: 'ask what you will, even to the half of my kingdom.'"

burton was about to make some light reply, when the sound of music from the old piano in the drawing-room came in between them. leslie was playing. it was to the doctor's offer of half his kingdom what a spark is to a train of powder. the flashing thought it conjured up--though it was less a thought than a dazzling recognition--made him dizzy. he dropped his eyes, dismayingly conscious that it was a thought which he did not care to expose to the keen eyes of the old doctor. he stood silent for a moment, ostensibly listening to the music. then he lifted his eyes, and put out his hand in farewell.

"good night, doctor. i shall go up to the reservation to-morrow, and may not be back for a few days, but i'll leave my address at the hotel, in the event of your possibly wanting me. i'll say good night to miss underwood as i go out. i assume i'll find her if i follow the music."

"yes, that's the way it seems, sometimes," said the doctor. the remark was so unintelligible that burton wondered whether he had dropped his eyes soon enough.