Bowen hung up. Sudden hope was reborn within him for a brief moment. Who was so infernally anxious to see him? Who but some one to whom he had talked that morning—some one who wanted him to return—some one who now wanted to invest!
The telephone jingled again.
“Mr. Bowen?” To his intense disappointment, a feminine voice impinged upon his ear. Then his feeling changed. It was a nice voice and he liked it. It held a softly appealing note. He imagined that it held a trace of tears.
“Mr. Bowen, I’m a stranger to you; my name is Alice Ferguson. I used to be a stenographer for your friend Judge Lyman in Tonopah. In this morning’s paper I saw that you were here, and I wondered if I might see you for five minutes on a matter of business. It—it is about some stock in Apex Crown, and it means everything to me; and if I could possibly impose on you to the extent of asking your advice—”
“My dear Miss Ferguson,” exclaimed Bowen, warmth in his voice, “I remember you very well indeed, although I never met you formally. Sure, I’ll be only too glad to do anything in my power. Where are you now?”
“In my office at the Crothers Building. I’ll come over—”
“Not a bit of it! I’ll be there in five minutes. Good-by!”
Bob Bowen remembered Judge Lyman’s stenographer as a girl not particularly striking, but looking very feminine, capable, and as level-headed as a girl could be. He seized his hat and sought the quickest way to the Crothers Building.
As he strode along, his mind was busy—very busy. Apex Crown! That was a small producing mine over in the Tonopah district; like his own futures, Apex Crown was low-grade ore and barely paid expenses. It had been scraping alone for about three years with the stock down to five cents and less.
But on the train, the great Dickover had said to—buy Apex Crown!