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!"