“Mr. Borland,” introduced Kennedy, changing his tactics and adopting a new role, “I’ve come down to you as an authority on rubber to ask you what your opinion is regarding the invention of a townsman of yours named Cushing.”
“Cushing?” repeated Borland in some surprise. “Why—”
“Yes,” interrupted Kennedy, “I understand all about it. I had heard of his invention in New York and would have put some money into it if I could have been convinced. I was to see him to-day, but of course, as you were going to say, his death prevents it. Still, I should like to know what you think about it.”
“Well,” Borland added, jerking out his words nervously, as seemed to be his habit, “Cushing was a bright young fellow. He used to work for me until he began to know too much about the rubber business.”
“Do you know anything about his scheme?” insinuated Kennedy.
“Very little, except that it was not patented yet, I believe, though he told every one that the patent was applied for and he expected to get a basic patent in some way without any interference.”
“Well,” drawled Kennedy, affecting as nearly as possible the air of a promoter, “if I could get his assistant, or some one who had authority to be present, would you, as a practical rubber man, go over to his laboratory with me? I’d join you in making an offer to his estate for the rights to the process, if it seemed any good.”
“You’re a cool one,” ejaculated Borland, with a peculiar avaricious twinkle in the corners of his eyes. “His body is scarcely cold and yet you come around proposing to buy out his invention and—and, of all persons, you come to me.”
“To you?” inquired Kennedy blandly.
“Yes, to me. Don’t you know that synthetic rubber would ruin the business system that I have built up here?”