“Sakes alive!” exploded the stout cook. “Wat’s all dis I’m a-hearin’?”
“Yo’all hearin’ de spittin’ trufe, Liza,” chimed in Uncle Abe earnestly. “Miss Do’thy am de qual’ty. Jes’ yo’ listen ter wat she say.”
Dorothy waited for no more comment. With a few deft word strokes she painted a vivid picture of last evening’s happenings at the Conway house. Then having aroused a wide-eyed interest in her story, she went on to tell of the adventure in Uncle Abe’s cabin and the morning’s experiences.
“I am not trying to make trouble between you and Mr. Joyce,” she ended, “but if you will help me to free that young gentleman—he must be either George or Terry—you’ll be doing a very fine thing and my father will see you come to no harm.”
“I’se ’spected fo’ some time Marse Joyce wuz er bad man,” said Liza, “but I ain’t askeert of him. Wat you want I should do, Miss Do’thy?”
“I just want you to tell me some things, Liza. Then you go on getting dinner and I’ll see what I can do for my friend.”
“Hadn’t I better call in Marse Bill?”
“No, not yet. If anything goes wrong in the house I want to have someone on the outside to phone for the police.” She turned to Liza. “Do you know where Mr. Joyce and his men are now?”
“Yes, ma’am. Marse Joyce an’ most of ’em done gone somewheres in de big car—left de house ’bout ’n hour ago.”
“How many are still here?”