He went to the road and called. The youth turned, came back to him. There was a brief exchange of words, too far away to be heard. Then Bill put a hand in his pocket, drew out an object of woven yarn. The boyish fellow almost snatched it and while Bill called and pretended to be very angry the boy dashed out of sight and Bill strolled back to the party.
“For Pete’s sake!” exclaimed Mr. Whitley, appearing exasperated. “You gave him that quipu.”
“I gave him that quipu—yep.”
“But—with the Spaniard visiting America to forestall that letter and with our lads seeing the Indian give that runner a quipu—don’t you see that the message might have been about us?”
Bill nodded. “It all hooks up. It likely was,” he agreed.
John Whitley stared, as did Nicky and Tom. Was this new acquaintance as much on their side as he claimed to be?
“Wasn’t that the same boy you saw?” John Whitley inquired.
“It was, sir,” Nicky answered. “He had a bright yellow thing-umjig on his head.”
Bill whittled one side of his stick to satiny smoothness. “Now I don’t know your mind and you don’t know mine,” he said, “But——”
“Wait!” broke in Cliff. “You dropped that quipu into your left hand pocket, Bill. I think—I’m sure—I saw you take what you gave him out of the other side of your coat.”