"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.)