Tom Swift was very busy for the next few days—so busy, in fact, that even Mary saw little of him. He was closeted with Mr. Baxter more than once, and that individual seemed to lose some of his bitter feelings over the loss of his formulae as he found he could be of service to the young inventor. For he was of service in suggesting new ways of combining fire-fighting chemicals, gained by his association with the fireworks concern.
"And that's about all the benefit I derived from being with those scoundrels, Field and Melling," said Mr. Baxter gloomily.
"You still think they took your dye formulae?" asked Tom.
"I'm positive of it, but I can't prove anything. They threatened to get the best of me when I would not sell them, for a ridiculously low sum, an interest in the secrets. And I believe they did get the best of me during that fire."
"I believe the same!" exclaimed Tom.
"How is that? What do you know? Can you help me prove anything against them?" eagerly asked the chemist.
"Well, I don't know," answered Tom slowly. "I'll tell you what I heard."
Thereupon he related the conversation he had overheard while with Mary at the wayside inn. The eyes of Josephus Baxter gleamed as he listened to this recital.
"So that was their game!" he cried, as he smote the table with his fist, thereby nearly upsetting a test tube of acid, which Tom caught just in time. "I knew something crooked was going on, and they thought I'd be so badly overcome in the fire that I wouldn't know, or wouldn't remember, what happened."
"What did happen?" asked Tom. "All I know is that you were overcome in the laboratory room."