“You say that his father and Mr. Joyce were friends—that they had dealings of some sort together?” Dorothy inquired.
“Yaas, ma’am. Dey wuz pardners in bizness, I reckon. Leastways, like you said, dey had dealings togedder.”
“But if Joyce was in business with Mr. Conway, why didn’t Stoker mention that?” asked Bill of Dorothy.
“Perhaps he didn’t know about it, Bill. He was away at school, remember, most of the time. And he told us that his father never spoke of his affairs or encouraged him to ask questions.”
“But it doesn’t sound reasonable, Dorothy. A fellow must know the name of his father’s firm.”
“That’s true, in a way. But maybe there was no firm—of Joyce and Conway? Isn’t it possible that Mr. Joyce may have acted as Mr. Conway’s agent—sold the inventions for him, perhaps? Mr. Conway was not a business man. He was always too occupied in his laboratory or in his workshop.”
“Dat am de way it wuz, Missy,” broke in the old darky eagerly. “’Times, de gennemen ’ud walk in de garden an’ talk while dis hyar niggeh done his weedin’ or plantin’ or wotnot—neveh done pay ’tenshun ter Ol’ Man River. He don’t count fer nuffin’ atall. Marse Conway done make his ’ventions—Marse Joyce done what he call ‘put ’em on de market.’ Is dat what yo’all wanter know, ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you, Uncle. I believe I’m beginning to see light at last.”
“Blest if I do,” commented Bill. “Joyce couldn’t try to steal patents registered in Mr. Conway’s name, could he?”
Dorothy smiled. “That can wait. It’s time we helped Uncle Abe wash up. Then maybe he’ll let us have a couple of blankets to spread before the fire. We’re dead for sleep and we’re keeping him up too.”