On the following morning Bob Bowen did not at once leap up and dress, nor did he disturb the morning paper. Instead, he lay quiet and frowned at the ceiling.
“No doubt at all about it,” he reflected. “She never said a word about it, of course. She’s not that kind. Just the same, it was there. It was in her eyes. Fear! She was afraid of something. That’s why she gave me that stock in trust.”
Instinct told him that he was right. Instinct had warned him from his first sight of Alice Ferguson that she was afraid of something. She had appealed to him for advice, yes; but fear had driven her further than she had first meant to go. Bowen had seen that hidden fear ere this, but not in the eye of a woman. It angered him.
What the devil was she afraid of? Rather—of whom? The answer was to Bowen quite obvious. Bowen had no use for brokers anyway. That hound of a broker who had visited her, had made some kind of threats, or had said something which put fear into her. Bowen swore to himself and looked at the time. It was seven thirty.
“I’ll do it,” he muttered, and opened his paper to the mining and stock page.
Instead of an obscure paragraph, he found that Apex Crown had leaped into prominence. The reasons, however, were entirely unknown. On the previous day some eight thousand shares had changed hands in San Francisco, and the price had closed at five cents bid, none offered.
In Los Angeles, however, things were different. Southern California was the “boob” end of the State, where people speculated with penny stocks. Here a great deal of Apex Crown had been unloaded in past years, and yesterday had wakened the moribund stock. Here the price had closed at five and a half. Twelve thousand shares had been quietly picked up at two and three cents before the market had discovered the activity.
“Somebody’s got agents at work, all right,” said Bowen grimly. “And they offered the little girl as high as twenty! Wonder if Apex Crown broke into ruby ore? No, that’s not likely over on those holdings. Something’s going on secretly.”
At that moment the telephone jingled.
“Yep, this is Bowen speaking. Who? Say it again. Oh, Dickover! Thought you were out of town—”
“I was,” returned the squeaky voice of the fat man. “Now I’m back. And I want to see you right now. I’m coming up to your room.”
“Come ahead.”
Bowen struggled into his clothes hurriedly, wondering why Dickover was seeking him. After that ten-thousand-share block? No, Dickover wasn’t buying low-grade stuff.
Five minutes later the fat man entered the room, puffing a little and eying Bowen with angry suspicion. He refused to sit down.
“See here!” he broke out suddenly.
“When I slipped you a tip to take a flier in Apex Crown I didn’t mean for you to jump into the market with both feet! Confound you, Bowen, what’s back of this? Why are you buying stock all over California?”
Bowen’s eyes twinkled as he surveyed his visitor.
“Guess you’re on the wrong track, Dickover,” he drawled. “When you told me about Apex Crown, I figured you were handing me a bum steer. I haven’t bought a share of the stuff. Straight!”
“What? You mean it?” Dickover said.
Bowen laughed easily. “I’ll prove it. I haven’t ten dollars to my name, and if the hotel wanted me to pay my bill I’d have to work it out in jail. I’d look fine going around buying stock, I would!”
There was no doubting his words. Dickover mopped his round face.
“Damn it!” he said. “Who’s doing it?”
“How much is it worth to you to know? I can tell you before ten o’clock.”
“You can? What d’ you know about it?”
“A friend of mine holds a block of ten thousand shares. Was offered twenty cents for it yesterday. Asked my advice, then transferred the stock to me to be held or sold on my judgment.”
“Ten thousand shares, eh?” Dickover’s eyes narrowed. “Give you thirty.”
“I’m not selling. Do you want to know who’s buying, or don’t you? How much for my information? I’ll find out who wants this block—if you offer enough. I owe a bill here.”
Dickover grunted. Then he emitted a falsetto chuckle.
“Five hundred. Waiting for you at ten o’clock.”
“And your interest in the property?”
Dickover grunted, turned, and left the room.
Bob Bowen hastened down to breakfast. He had learned that the magnate was keenly interested in Apex Crown—wanted to buy it himself. Why? The only plausible explanation was that Apex Crown had broken into a rich lode, and from his knowledge of the place Bowen thought this unlikely.
At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building. He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much.
He went straight to Miss Ferguson’s office, and found her just arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that left no doubt of his welcome.
“Has that broker been here yet?” demanded Bowen bluntly.
“That broker? Oh, no! He didn’t say what time he’d be here for his answer.”
“He didn’t need to. I figure that nine o’clock will fetch him, and if you don’t mind, I want to sit around on the chance.”
The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window, frowningly.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said at last. “Only—I don’t want you to lose your temper with him—”
Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his lips.
“I never had any temper,” he said. “I’m the mildest little fellow you ever did see, Miss Ferguson! Honest. I’m a business man. Now, suppose you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don’t mean to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait.”
The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into the roll.
“All ready?” asked Bowen. “Then shoot!”
“MY DEAR JUDGE:
“I’m here in the big town and having the time of my life. Them are the exact words. I yesterday met your erstwhile stenographer, Miss Ferguson, who has an office of her own and deserves it. I don’t know of any one I’d sooner have met—”
Bowen paused, meeting the girl’s eyes on his. “That’s all right,” he said hurriedly. “I’m writing the judge. Confidential letter. Go ahead!”
Smiling a little, the girl leaned forward. At that instant, however, the office door opened and a man appeared framed in the opening. Bowen gave him a casual glance. Miss Ferguson looked up and smiled—a bit frostily.
“I’ll be through this letter in a moment,” she said, “and shall be at liberty then. Just take a chair, please. Yes, Mr. Bowen?”
“Paragraph,” said Bowen, now staring past her at the window. He was conscious that the stranger had taken a chair. “You got that property location all straight now?”
Miss Ferguson glanced up quickly, caught Bowen’s vacant expression, and smothered the surprise in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “All ready.”
Bowen proceeded with his dictation, apparently ignoring the listener.
“For these two holdings of mine—the Sunburst and the Golden Lode—I want more money than has been offered me as yet. They are, of course, low-grade ore, and if I can get rid of them at a reasonable figure, I shall do so at once.
“However, I have an appointment with Mr. Dickover at ten o’clock, and have good reason to believe—”
There came a sudden interruption—from the stranger.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, stepping forward. “Of course I couldn’t help overhearing your dictation, sir. May I ask if you are Mr. Robert Bowen of Tonopah?”
Bowen gave him a slow stare. “I am.”
“By George! It’s lucky I met you, then. I arrived from Tonopah myself a couple of days ago, and have been trying to connect with you. My name’s Henderson. While at Tonopah I looked over your holdings, among others; and if you’d consider an offer on them—”
Bowen drew a cigar from his pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it. He surveyed Henderson with indecision.
“I don’t know you, Mr. Henderson,” he observed coolly. “I don’t want to sell those two properties, but I happen to need cash—in a hurry. My samples and assayers’ reports are at the hotel—”
“I remember the properties very well,” broke in Henderson. “I know you by reputation, and I know your ground by personal examination. Frankly, Mr. Bowen, I’m bucking the Dickover interests in a certain direction. If you’ll give me an option—”
“Nothing doing!” snapped Bowen with finality. “Dickover is talking cold cash. Of course my ore is nothing wonderful—”
Henderson produced a check-book. “I’ll give you a check for five thousand to cover both claims,” he said quickly. “Not a cent more. Yes or no?”
“Now, I like your way of doing business!” said Bowen cordially. “That’s what I call a man’s way. Five thousand wins. Got any legal forms around, Miss Ferguson? Are you a notary?”
“I have and I am,” said the girl quietly.
Twenty minutes later, with a witness called in from next door, Henderson was the owner of the Sunburst and Golden Lode claims. Bowen picked up the check for five thousand and handed it to Miss Ferguson.
“I don’t know you, Henderson,” he said quietly, “and I need cash badly. Further, I have an engagement in half an hour with Dickover and this must be settled one way or the other. So, Miss Ferguson, kindly step around the corner to the bank and cash this check for me. Good thing you deal with a local bank, Henderson.”
“I’ll go right with the young lady,” spoke up Henderson. “I can facilitate the cashing of the check, perhaps.”
“No,” said Bowen, his gray eyes suddenly icy. “No. You stay here, Henderson. I want to have a little private conversation with you.”
Henderson looked at him hard. Bowen’s tone had not been nice; but then, Bowen seemed to be on the inside, and private conversation was an alluring bait.
“Well—” he hesitated.
“You’d better stay,” said Bowen calmly. Then he rose and stepped outside the door as Miss Ferguson left. He closed the door again and spoke to the girl in a low voice.
“Cash that check, then run up to the Palace and wait for me, will you? Please!”
The girl nodded. Her eyes sought his with a mischievous gleam. “You won’t hurt him?”
“Hurt him? Great Jehu! I should say not! Why, he’s Dickover’s confidential agent!”