Burton awoke the next morning in a new frame of mind. His half reluctant interest in the Underwood situation had suddenly been touched with enthusiasm. If Henry was innocent, then the whole thing was a hideous conspiracy that cried to heaven to be exposed. The fact that it was not taking place in past historic times or in distant lands, but here in a commonplace town of the middle west in the light of newspapers, police regulations and prevalent respectability,--all this made it more interesting to him, instead of more prosaic. It was a real and vital situation, not an imaginable possibility. If Henry was in truth innocent, if the doctor was the guileless child of light that he seemed, if Miss Leslie had been involved in all this tangle by a cruel trick of Fate's, then certainly here was work waiting for him. He was no detective, but neither was this the ordinary melodrama of crime. It was rather a psychological problem, and it was just possible that he was better fitted to get at the truth of the matter than a professional who would have less human interest in the persons involved.
First of all, he would see Miss Hadley. He wanted to verify his guess that Henry's presence in the neighborhood last night was something that she could very well explain if she wanted to. And if that proved true, then Henry's wanderings on the night of the fire might easily have been in the same direction. Burton could not deny that it would ease his mind to have that point settled!
Miss Hadley came into the reception room with a nervous flutter in her manner and a startled look in her soft eyes. She was a pretty girl, of an excessively feminine type,--all soft coloring and timid grace. Certainly she was a pleasant thing to look upon, yet Burton's heart rather sank as he stood up to meet her. "She hasn't the backbone to stand by a man," he thought to himself, with a swift recognition of what Henry was going to need. But aloud he said: "I took the liberty of calling to inquire about your father. I hope that his trying experiences last night have not had any serious effects."
"He has gone down to the bank," she answered. "He felt that he ought to take the risk."
"Risk? What is he afraid of?"
"Why, anything might happen, after last night," she said, opening her eyes wide upon him.
"I'm glad to hear you say that," said Burton quickly, "because it indicates that you--and I hope your father--do not share the foolish idea that Henry Underwood was in any way responsible for that outrage."
Her eyes filled with quick tears at the name. "They say he did it," she murmured.
"But you don't believe that," he said reassuringly. "You know that he has been arrested and put in jail, yet you say that your father fears other possible attacks. Of course if Mr. Underwood were the one, there would be no further danger, now that he is locked up! So I infer that your father is satisfied that it was some one else."
But anything so logical as this bit of reasoning found no response in Miss Hadley's mind. She looked at him from brimming violet eyes that, Burton confessed to himself with some cynicism, would have made anything like common sense seem an impertinence to him if he had been fifteen years younger.
"Papa says that he must have done it," she persisted. "He never did like Hen-- Mr. Underwood."
"But I am sure that any personal dislike will not prevent his being fair to him in a case like this. You can help, you know. You can tell your father quite frankly why Mr. Underwood was found loitering in the garden. That will clear him of the most serious part of the evidence against him."
"What--what do you mean?" she gasped, looking at him in a kind of terror and half rising, as though she would flee from the room.
"Mr. Underwood came here last night to see you, didn't he?" he asked, in a matter-of-course tone.
The ready tears overflowed the brimming violets, and though she dabbed them away with a trifle that she called a handkerchief, they continued to well up and overflow, while she kept her eyes fixed upon him.
"I--I was going away. Papa said that I had to go to my aunt in Williamston, so--that Hen-- Mr. Underwood c--could not come and see me. And he c--couldn't even come to say goodbye, so he came to the garden, and--and--I was afraid some one might see him if he kept hanging around,--it wasn't my fault,--he wouldn't pay attention to me when I told him never to come again,--"
"So you went down to the garden to say goodbye to him," said Burton, cheerfully. "Well, that was kind of you, and I don't think for my part that you could have done any less. He loves you and you love him and you had a right to say goodbye to him before you went away. Of course you would stand up for him, just as he would stand up for you.Iunderstand!"
Miss Hadley was so surprised by this mode of attack that she could only stare at him in silence.
"Now the point that I want you to tell me," Burton continued, "is just when you left Mr. Underwood in the garden and returned to the house."
She continued to stare in fascinated terror.
"You came in through the window in the drawing-room, didn't you?"
She made the slightest possible sign of assent.
"And you went directly up to your room?"
"Yes."
"And then when the wind came up you remembered that you had left the window open and you went back to close it. Is that it?"
"Y--yes."
"And then when you got into the hall, what was it that called your attention to your father's room? Was his door open?"
She nodded. "There was a light. I was afraid that he was up and would hear me in the hall, so I peeked through the crack--" She stopped, but she was not weeping now. She evidently saved her tears for her own troubles.
"And then you saw him tied up in bed and you began to scream,--which was the very best thing you could have done, my dear Miss Hadley. How long were you in your room before you remembered about the window?"
"I--don't know."
"You had not begun to undress."
She gave him a startled look.
"I noticed that you were fully dressed. Did you read anything after you went to your room?"
"No."
"Or write anything?"
"No."
"Or sew, or-- I don't know what girls do do when they go to their room! But did you do anything, and how long did it take you? You see I want to get an idea how long it was between the time you left Mr. Underwood after saying goodbye to him, and the time that you looked into your father's room."
"I don't know," she wailed, and Burton ground his teeth.
"But it may be very important! You must try to remember. It would have taken quite a while for any one to tie all those knots. Of course if he was with you in the garden he was not up in your father's room, and if we can prove that there was not time enough--"
But she had sprung to her feet with a little scream. "You don't think he will ever tell that I met him in the garden?"
"Aren't you going to tell, yourself?" asked Burton dryly.
She began to sob again, more with terror, it seemed, than anything else. "Papa would be--so angry."
"But you wouldn't let that frighten you into silence, when your word would mean so much to him?" Burton forced himself to speak gently and coaxingly, for he saw that this frightened girl held the key to much of the mystery,--and he doubted her generosity!
"I wish I had--never seen him. I wish he had never come to--the garden. I never wanted him to come!"
"That wasn't the first time he had come, though, was it? You met him in the garden the evening before, you know," Burton said. He took a positive tone because he did not dare risk it as a question. But she met his assertion with a look so startled that it was all the confirmation he needed. Thank goodness! Henry had been here, then, when he came home in the small hours, and there was no further need to wonder about his whereabouts when the Sprigg fire started! Burton drew a breath of relief.
"I didn't think he would tell," wailed Miss Hadley.
"He didn't," said Burton quickly. "I happened to see him both times; that's how I knew."
"And I never thought he would be so wicked as to tie my father up in knots!"
"But he didn't, my dear Miss Hadley; you surely knew he didn't. He wouldn't have had time, even if there were nothing else. That's what we can prove, you and I. I want you to tell--"
"Oh, I can't! I can't! I'll say I don't know anything about it, if you try to make me tell. I think you are horrid!"
Burton beat his mind in despair. How was he to pin this irresponsible child down to the facts of the situation? Suddenly she looked up from her handkerchief.
"Mr. Selby says it was Henry, and now I can see what sort of a man he really is."
"When did he say that?"
"Last night. And today."
Burton reflected that Selby certainly knew the advantage of striking when the iron was hot. But he only asked: "Is Mr. Selby a friend of Mr. Underwood's?"
A self-conscious look came into her face, and she dropped her eyes. It was quite evident that her vanity took the jealousy of the two men as a tribute to her powers.
"Does Mr. Selby know that you are engaged to Mr. Underwood?" he asked abruptly.
"N--no!" she stammered.
"Did you tell him that you had just left Mr. Underwood in the garden last night?"
"No," she gasped. "You--you don't think Mr. Underwood would tell?"
"No, I don't think he would," said Burton. "In fact, I feel quite sure he would keep silence on that point, at any cost. But I am going to tell, if it becomes necessary."
"I will never speak to him again," she cried desperately. "I will never see him or speak to him again."
Burton held himself from retorting: "It will be better for him if you don't," and merely answered, with as much kindliness as he could put into his voice:
"I shall not speak of it unless necessary. If we can clear him without that, all right; I know he would rather have it that way. But if it becomes necessary to prove where he was that evening, in order to prove that he could not have been in your father's room at the same time, I am going to tell the facts. There won't be any harm to you in them. And there isn't anything else to do, if that question comes up."
But Miss Hadley would not answer. She gave him one look of indignant and tearful reproach, and then fled from the room, leaving him to find his way out of the house as best he could.
Burton found himself in a somewhat embarrassing quandary as he considered the matter. While he felt morally satisfied that he had found the true explanation of Henry's presence in the neighborhood, and the proof of his innocence of all complicity in the assault upon the banker, he realized that it would not be easy to convince either a prejudiced public or a jury. Miss Hadley was obviously not to be counted upon. She might deny the whole thing, or she might be terrified into admitting anything as to time and place that the prosecution might wish to draw from her. Undoubtedly the opposition of her father would seem to the multitude merely another reason for suspecting Henry, instead of its being, as Burton saw it, a fairly conclusive proof that he would have been more than ordinarily scrupulous in his dealings with the man whom he hoped to call his father-in-law. And of course Henry would neither tell himself, nor thank Burton for telling, a piece of news that would be gossip and cause for laughter in a small town like High Ridge. It was unfortunate that Henry should have fixed his affections upon so unstable a creature as the pretty Miss Hadley, anyhow. Why couldn't he have had the judgment to choose some one like--well, like his sister Leslie, who would have walked by the side of the man she loved down into the valley of the shadow of death if need be?
But then, he reflected cynically, people never did show any judgment when it came to falling in love, for the matter of that. There was Miss Underwood, herself. Of course Philip was a charming boy, and all that, but--He shook his head impatiently, and went on to interview Henry.
Burton found Henry Underwood in prison quite as calm and saturnine as he had been in the garden.
"Have you made any arrangement for counsel?" he asked, after shaking hands.
"Counsel? You mean a lawyer? No."
"Is there some one you would prefer?"
"Do I have to have one?"
"Oh, yes! That's one of the rules of the game."
"Suppose I just don't play?" suggested Henry.
Burton laughed in spite of himself.
"Then the court will appoint some young lawyer to practise on you. You'd better make your own selection. For one thing you want a lawyer to arrange to bail you out. This is a bailable offence, you understand, and you don't want to stay in this hole any longer than is necessary."
"Nevertheless, I shall stay for the present," said Henry coolly. "I do not want to be bailed out."
"Why not?" demanded Burton. "In the name of wonder, why not?"
"For one thing, I will ask no favors of any one. I will not be put in the attitude of suppliant."
"If you will pardon my frankness," said Burton, "that is pig-headed nonsense. But aside from that point, you won't need to do anything about it. Your lawyer will attend to it. And I herewith offer to put up any bond that may be required, so your pride is saved. It is I who am the suppliant!"
Henry looked neither surprised nor grateful. "I told you that I was not going to let myself be bailed out," he said with some impatience. "Now that they have shut me up in here, they at least can't accuse me of the next thing that happens."
"Oh, I see! Well, if you have the nerve for it, I am not sure that isn't a good plan," said Burton thoughtfully. "It will certainly eliminate you as a factor, if anything more does happen. Of course if the person who seems bent on implicating you should be shrewd enough to keep quiet for a while, it would not have the effect you wish for. Have you thought of that possibility?"
"I'm out of it," said Henry shortly. "That's all I care about. And here I am going to stay until they get tired and let me out to get rid of me."
"I am really very glad you can take that attitude," said Burton. He spoke sincerely, for the young man's manner contained no personal offence in spite of his brusqueness, and Burton was the least vain of men. "It leaves us free to work on the outside,--and of course you understand that I am going to work for you. Now, I want your help so far as you can give it to me. I want to know if you have any idea who is at the bottom of these occurrences,--any knowledge or any suspicion."
"No."
"Of course you must have given a good deal of thought to it, in the course of all these years. You have never had a glimmering of an idea as to who it is that is persecuting you?"
Henry smiled sardonically. "My mother says it is no persecution,--merely the punishment for my evil temper. I suppose you have heard that I have an evil temper?"
"Yes. It gave me a fellow-feeling for you. I have an evil temper myself, at bottom. But as for punishment, what I want to get at is the human agency. It seems incredible that you should have never, in your own mind, had a suspicion of the guilty party."
"What I may have thought in my own mind is neither here nor there," said Henry, knitting his black brows together.
"Have you an enemy, then?"
Henry shrugged his shoulders. "I have no friends."
"Then you absolutely refuse to give me any help?"
"I absolutely refuse to give you what I don't possess," said Henry impatiently.
Burton waited a moment, then he asked suddenly: "Did Selby give you back your knife, before he left the surgery the other night?"
The look that had flashed instantaneously into Henry's eyes at the mention of that name gave Burton all the information he needed as to Henry's power of hating one man at least. But the answer to his question was abrupt and positive.
"No."
"Did you notice what he did with it,--whether he gave it to your father, or left it on the mantel, or anywhere else?"
"I didn't notice."
"But you are positive that he didn't give it to you and that you didn't unconsciously drop it into your own pocket?"
"Of course I am positive. I wouldn't be unconscious in connection with anything that Selby was concerned in. If he came near enough to me to hand me anything, I would be conscious of the fact, you may be sure. Why?"
"That knife has been found near the Sprigg house."
Henry frowned.
"The last I saw of that knife, it was in Selby's hands," Burton continued. "Well, what of it?"
"How did it come to be under the Sprigg ruins? You must help me to work that out. You are suspected of firing the house,--you know that, don't you?"
Henry's eyes fell. "Who says so?" he asked doggedly, but without spirit. "Selby does."
But this time he drew nothing. Henry merely shrugged his shoulders.
"The knife is the only direct link with you," Burton went on. "Therefore we must explain the knife. How did it get there?"
"What do I know about it? Or about anything?" Henry asked impatiently.
But Burton was persistent. "There are two possible theories," he said, watching Henry as he spoke. "The knife may have been left in the surgery when the committee departed, and the incendiary may have found it there and carried it off. I have reasons for believing that some one tried to enter--or rather,didenter--that room in the night. Or, as an alternative theory, Selby may have carried it away with him, either intentionally or unconsciously, and then dropped it near the Sprigg house,--either intentionally or unconsciously."
Henry listened with little softening of the bitterness in his face. "There is another possible theory," he said, with something like a sneer. "I may be lying when I say he didn't give the knife back to me."
"That is of course possible," said Burton calmly, "but I don't believe it. At any rate I'll try out the other theories first. Now, here's another point. Did you buy a ball of stout twine at Proctor's the other day?"
Henry stared. "Why do you ask that?"
"Because Proctor said that he had sold you the cord that Hadley was tied up with. He claimed to identify it. Did you buy it of him?"
"I bought a ball of cord,--yes."
"What did you do with it?"
"I used it to tie up some heavy vines in the back yard."
"Did you use all of it?"
"No."
"What did you do with the rest,--the ball?"
Henry considered. "I don't remember. I may have left it on the ground where I was working."
"You can't be sure about it?"
"No." Henry spoke with an exasperating indifference. It might have been Burton whose honor was involved, and Henry merely an uninterested bystander. Burton looked at him in great perplexity. His desire to help the man out was not lessened, but he felt baffled by the mask of reserve which Henry refused to lay aside. He so greatly disliked being placed in the attitude of forcing his proffers of assistance upon an unwilling recipient that only the thought of Leslie Underwood kept him from wishing to drop the matter then and there. But he did remember, and he put his pride in his pocket.
"All these matters are for your attorney," he said at last. "If there is any one whom you would rather have or would rather not have, I wish you'd tell me. I do not want to involve your feelings unnecessarily, and I shall certainly have to confer with your father on the subject."
Henry frowned, but after a moment's hesitation he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote a name and address on a leaf which he tore from a memorandum book.
"I think they would be as good as anybody, if I have to have some one," he said.
Burton took the paper, but he hardly glanced at the name, so interested was he in the pencil with which Henry wrote. It was a short flat pencil, such as carpenters use, and it made the broad black mark that Burton already knew from the mysterious missives of warning.
"Do you always use that sort of a pencil?" he asked.
Henry bent his black brows in a look of resentful inquiry.
"What if I do?"
"Because it is unusual, and leaves a peculiar mark, easily identified, and because I am assuming that you would rather be cleared than convicted," said Burton, exasperated into impatience. "When it is common report that you are the author of the anonymous messages which appear either in the typewriting of the machine in your house or in that broad black pencil, there certainly is every reason for finding out who is sufficiently familiar with your ways to imitate them so skilfully. Or is it common knowledge that you use a carpenter's pencil?"
"It is not uncommon for people to use it for things that are to stand weathering," said Henry, reluctantly. "I use it in my work in the garden."
"Is your custom in the matter generally known?"
"How can I tell?"
"Just for instance,--does Selby know?"
But Henry was guarding his expression now. He shook his head with rather an elaborate affectation of lack of interest. "I'm sure I couldn't say."
"Selby might carry a carpenter's pencil," mused Burton, "but he would be too shrewd to use it. Who would know your ways? Who comes frequently and familiarly to your house? Does Selby--again, just for instance,--have access to your house?"
"No," said Henry coldly. "He never comes there. That is, he never comes to our part of the house. He comes now and then to see Ben Bussey about work, but he goes to the back door."
"The back hall that runs by the door of the surgery?"
"Yes," said Henry. He turned away, as though to mark the end of the conversation, and Burton refrained from pressing him further.
Burton left the jail a good deal perplexed as to what he really did think of things by this time. He had jumped so enthusiastically to the conclusion the night before that Henry was innocent that he could not easily relinquish that hope, and yet certainly Henry had not cared at all to help him to establish it as a fact. He seemed more than unwilling to make any admission that would throw suspicion on Selby, and yet, if there were anything in expression, he hated Selby. Was it possible that just because he hated Selby he was so scrupulous not to implicate him? The idea struck Burton at first merely as a paradox, but the more he thought about it, the more he began to believe he had hit upon the truth. It was exactly the sort of Quixotism of which the doctor would have been guilty. Perhaps Henry was not so unlike his father as he appeared. If he knew or guessed, for instance, that Miss Hadley was wavering between himself and Selby, it was not difficult to understand that he would have considered it anything but "sporting" to involve his rival in the obloquy which had fallen upon himself. Well, if Miss Hadley were the key that would unlock Henry's heart,--or his lips,--he must try Miss Hadley again. Perhaps she could be moved to pity. He swerved out of his way to call again upon the banker's daughter.
Miss Hadley was in the drawing-room, and she received him this time with an evident embarrassment and hesitation which he attributed to her lingering resentment at his former urgency. But he had already taken her measure. She was one of the people who must never be allowed to exercise free will. She needed a master to keep her from making a fool of herself. He determined at once to assume what he wanted her to believe.
"I have just been to see Mr. Underwood," he said. "He is a fine fellow,--but you found that out before the rest of the town did! However, everybody will know it one of these days. We are going to have all this misunderstanding and mystery cleared up, and you will have a chance to be proud of him publicly. But just now, while he is so unhappy, you must help to cheer him up. Don't you think you might go and see him and tell him that you believe in him? It would mean a great deal to him. You would seem like an angel of mercy to him."
He had talked rapidly, pressing his plan with a sort of urgency that he would never have dared to use, for instance, with Leslie Underwood. Almost he assumed that she would have no opinion to offer if only he didn't give her time to consider! But she drew away from him with a look of absolute dismay that was not in the character he had outlined for her.
"I couldn't think of it,--not at all," she stammered.
"But you know you are engaged--"
"Oh, no!" she gasped.
"Well, practically you are," he persisted calmly.
"And you know that it would mean more to him--"
"I don't know what you mean at all," she exclaimed desperately, and unconsciously she glanced at the drawn curtains that separated the drawing-room from a room in the rear.
Burton bit his lip. He certainly had been rashly foolish to assume that he was speaking tête-à-tête with Miss Hadley. Who was in the back room? Her father? If he understood Mr. Hadley's temperament, he would have burst into the room to demand an explanation by this time. Could it possibly be Selby who was eavesdropping? If it were, he would give him something for his pains!
"Mr. Underwood has enemies," he said calmly. "Mr. Selby, for instance, is not friendly to him. Of course you know that, and you will understand that anything he may say to you about his rival ought to be discounted. I don't need to suggest to you which is the more worthy of faith and credit. One is a gentleman, the other isn't. Of course there could never for a moment be a question of counting the two men equal." And then, fearful from the terrified dismay on her face that if he kept on she would say something that would give the situation away, he switched the conversation off upon tracks of glittering generality, and spun it out as long as he dared. If it really were Selby in the back room waiting for him to go, he was going to give him his money's worth! He even ventured on a form of open flattery which he guessed would make Selby furious and which certainly made Miss Hadley stare at him in innocent amazement. When the lengthening shadows forced him at last to take his leave, he took it with a lingering deliberation that measured out exasperation to his hidden enemy drop by drop.
He went immediately to his own room in the hotel, which, it will be remembered, overlooked the Hadley house, and sat down by the open window to read the evening papers. There was no reason, surely, why he should not sit by his own window! He had to wait nearly half an hour, but he was rewarded. At the end of that time Selby came out of the house and, with a dark glance toward the hotel, hurried up the street.
Burton laughed softly, but after a while he began to wonder just what he had gained by his absurd punishment of the eavesdropper. Nothing, probably, except a malicious satisfaction which was not particularly creditable to him. He instinctively disliked Selby; but unless Selby could be shown to have an active hand in the mysterious disturbances which had been laid at Henry's door, he had no quarrel with him. It was questionable wisdom to antagonize Selby unnecessarily at this stage of the proceedings. However, the first thing to do now was to see Dr. Underwood and consult with him as to the steps to be taken for securing legal counsel.
It was noticeable that the necessity of calling at the Red House immediately lightened the burden of the day's affairs.
The surgery, whatever claim it may originally have had to the title, appeared now to be the doctor's den and smoking-room. Mrs. Bussey indicated that he would find the doctor there, and Burton did not attempt to conceal from himself the pleasure with which he discovered that Leslie was with her father, and that she gave no sign of any intention to beat an immediate retreat.
"How is my patient?" he asked, with an elaborate assumption of the popular physician's "bedside manner."
"Mighty glad to see you," said Dr. Underwood, with a look that made the words go home. "Leslie and I have been sitting here cultivating a magnificent crop of the blues. There was trouble enough before, but this affair--"
"Is the best possible thing that could have happened, because it will bring matters to a crisis," answered Burton. "I told you that I am firmly convinced that your son is innocent, and I hold to that belief in spite of the unnatural conduct of his father in feeling discouraged. I have been talking with Mr. Underwood in the jail."
"Did you get any satisfaction out of your conversation?" asked the doctor dryly. "If you did, I'll engage you as my official interpreter."
"Not very much concrete satisfaction, perhaps, but a good deal of subjective reassurance. I am firmly convinced that he is the victim, first, of his own pride and bitterness, and, second, of some unscrupulous enemy, who is taking advantage of the state of the public mind to throw unmerited discredit upon him."
"That's what Leslie says. But how are we going to make it clear to the world at large? And things have now reached a point where the world at large will have to be taken into the family confidence to a disconcerting extent. Leslie, I wish you were married and overseas."
Leslie looked as though it might be a relief to her to allow her spirits to droop, but at this challenge she lifted her head gallantly.
"Then you would put me to all the trouble and expense of a trip back overseas to come to you," she said promptly. "Counsel to run away from trouble doesn't come with a good grace from you, father. You have never set me the example."
"You see what influence I have over my children," said the doctor, appealing to Burton.
"I'm beginning to see. My sympathies go out to you. Let us talk of some less distressing matter. For instance,--Miss Hadley." He glanced from one to the other as he spoke the name, but in neither face could he read the slightest consciousness. A curious impulse of masculine loyalty to Henry made him hesitate to divulge the secret which Henry had evidently guarded so carefully that it was unsuspected by his family. "I have just been calling on Miss Hadley," he added, in lame explanation. "I wanted to get some further particulars. But that really should be the work of your son's lawyer, Doctor, and that's what I specially wanted to consult with you about. I want your permission to send for a real lawyer,--a big man who will bring the very best skill and experience to the case. You won't object?"
The doctor hesitated a moment before he answered.
"Is a big man necessary if the case is to turn on facts? Frankly, I can't afford a big lawyer, you know. I'd rather take a local man with a sickly family, so that I could work it out in bills! I know it sounds sordid, but that is the mercenary, habit of the world, and I can't hope to change it out of hand. I should be perfectly willing to ignore matters of that sort, but--the big lawyer wouldn't."
"I see," said Burton, recognizing that one of the impossibilities in the case was any offer of financial assistance on his own part. "Perhaps you are right. If we can simply establish the facts, we shan't need any hired eloquence to present them. They will speak for themselves. Well, we will establish the facts."
"But how? How?" demanded Leslie eagerly.
"I have one or two fragmentary theories in my mind. In the first place--"
But he got no farther, for there was suddenly an alarming clash and clatter in the back hall. Both Burton and Leslie sprang for the door But the sight that met their eyes was not nearly so alarming as the noise. It was merely Mrs. Bussey, gathering up the broken pieces of a starch box which lay in curious proximity to a kitchen chair which stood in curious proximity to the transom of the door to the surgery.
"I was jest a-trying to get down them cobwebs," she gasped, and retreated hastily to the safe precincts of the kitchen with the unreliable box.
Burton took up his theme as though he had not been interrupted, deeming it wisest to take no further notice of this curious domestic situation.
"Your son does not wish to take advantage of his unquestionable privilege of bail," he said to the doctor. "He goes on the theory that things will continue to happen and that he will therefore be cleared by implication. I can't say I feel sure of it. This unknown enemy seems to be quite astute enough to suspend operations while Mr. Underwood is under lock and key, merely to avoid giving him the vindication which he would like to secure in that way. But perhaps it might be as well to let him carry out his plan for a time. It will probably give you a temporary respite from further disturbances."
"Even that will be gratefully received," said the doctor wearily.
"It will at least give us time," said Burton.
And then, feeling that his friends needed to be taken away from the thought of the burden which they were carrying, he turned the conversation upon impersonal matters. He deliberately laid himself out to be entertaining,--and the effort was more of a compliment than they were apt to realize. When finally he said good night, he had to admit that he had enjoyed the evening very much. Of course it wouldn't do to ask Miss Underwood if she had had as good a time as he had,--but at any rate she had not looked bored. But then, she could hardly have told a man to his face that she found him dull!
His thoughts were running along after this idiotic fashion when he became aware that a man was following him in the street. He noticed it at first merely because the street was otherwise so entirely deserted, and it did not occur to him that the man was actually dogging him until he had turned a corner or two, and found that the man did the same. Then he slackened his pace and the man fell back. By this time he began to be curious. He took a couple of unnecessary turns, and satisfied himself that the pursuit was no accident. Then he turned sharply on his heel and made a jump toward his pursuer. But the man dodged, jumped from the sidewalk, and ran off between two buildings.
The incident puzzled Burton, and made him somewhat uncomfortable. High Ridge was a place of mysteries. Also, he reflected, it was a place of very few policemen. Was his pursuer a common street bandit, with designs on his purse, or was he connected with the Underwood mystery and the warning that had been sent him at the hotel? The thought made him square his jaw. Did they think to frighten him off? He would let them see!
He had turned aside from his most direct route to the hotel in this experiment, and he now found himself in a street with which he was not familiar, though he knew the general location. He turned in the direction where his hotel must be, and was glad to hear no longer the sound of feet behind him. Suddenly from the shadow of a large business block, a man sprang out from a driveway and jumped at him. The attack was so sudden and so fierce and Burton was so unprepared that for a moment he was borne backward and almost carried to the ground. How he recovered himself he could not have told. The primitive instinct of the fighting animal awoke within him, and perhaps some of the acquired skill of his college days came back. He knew that he was fighting for his life, for the hand that he had clutched held a knife, and there was no mistaking the vicious energy that his assailant was exerting. Burton answered with a strength that he had not known he possessed. He felt the man's body yielding inch by inch under his clutch, and then suddenly it slipped away from his hands, and the man darted off and disappeared into the night, leaving Burton panting and dishevelled and very much amazed. He had never before had occasion to defend his life,--he had always taken for granted that civilization would take that burden off the hands of any decent man. And yet here, in a quiet little village, where he was practically unknown, he had been assailed by some one who really wanted to kill him. He was quite sure that the man's object had not been merely thievish. His attack was personally vicious.
Suddenly he remembered how he had kept Selby cooling his heels in Miss Hadley's back parlor while he amused himself with Miss Hadley, and the satisfaction he had taken in the situation faded into a rather serious inquiry. Selby was a man of violent temper who had no occasion to love him. But did he have occasion to hate him to the death? If so, there could be but one reason. He feared his investigations.
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.)