For an instant, there was the absolute silence of amazed horror, in which, presently, broke the snorting and chuckling of Maria, who rocked herself back and forth on her haunches, like some witch muttering over an evil brew.
"Where is that statement?" demanded the commissioner.
"Maria had it the last time I knew of its whereabouts." Fitzpatrick closed his eyes, wearily.
"Maria!" The commissioner's voice was sharp with command and disgust. The withered squaw suddenly stopped her rocking, and opened her little, fire-shot eyes steadily for a moment.
"Douglas!" she said, pronouncing his first name with careless familiarity.
Fitzpatrick, at this breach of ceremony, rose, furious, on his pile of blankets, inarticulate.
"Let me see it." Not many people resisted that tone of McTavish's.
"You refuse, eh?" The blue eyes darkened to ominous black. "If you repeat that, old woman, you start with me for Winnipeg to-morrow, and you spend the rest of your life in jail. You have done me enough injury already to land you in a dozen courts. I'll give you another chance. Let me see that paper. And no funny business. I mean what I say, and you know it. We're at the point now where you, or I, win forever. Come now, dig up, and be quick!"
Perhaps, the flinty hardness, the indifferent crispness, of that voice raised dim memories in the woman's mind, for her glance wavered, for the first time.
"Come on, Maria," interposed Donald, as the old woman framed a whining reply, "the paper is in that muskrat-skin bag around your neck. I know, because I've seen it."
She turned upon him, bristling like an angry cat.
"Yes, and be quick, or you'll have help you don't want," added the commissioner, coolly.
With a snarl, Maria thrust her hand into her meager bosom, and drew forth a little bag with its draw-strings. Under the fascinated eyes of the group, she opened it, and carefully extracted the worn paper.
"Please identify it, Fitzpatrick," ordered the commissioner, and the factor of Fort Severn took the sheet in his hands.
"It's the same she showed me last summer," he said, after a careful examination. "I would know the handwriting of Burns Riley, the missionary, anywhere."
"Good heavens!" cried the commissioner. "Did Burns Riley write and sign that?" He reached out an agitated hand, and Fitzpatrick passed over the paper.