“Burthon is building your machine.”
Steve stared at him, doubtful if he heard aright. Orissa stood motionless, growing white and red by turns. Sybil’s lips curled in a sneer as she said:
“My clever uncle! What a resourceful man he is.”
“I—I don’t believe I understand,” stammered Steve.
“It’s simple enough,” replied Cumberford. “Burthon sent to Washington for copies of your plans and specifications, has built a hangar and workshop over South Pasadena way, and employed a clever mechanic from Cleveland to superintend the construction—already well under way.”
“How do you know this, sir?” inquired Steve, breathless.
“The clever mechanic from Cleveland is my own man, who has been my confidential agent for years.”
“And you permit him to do this work!” cried the young man, indignantly.
“To be sure. If Brewster loses the job, some one will get it who is not my agent. It is the only way I can keep accurate account of what Burthon is up to.”
They were all silent for a time while they considered this startling information. By and by Cumberford said: