Had Dickover been uttering a grim jest, thinking that the drummer and Bowen would rush to operate on his tip? Was Apex Crown worthless? And what was Alice Ferguson’s interest in this stock, this stock which on the curb market was unsought and unbought?
Bob Bowen reached the Crothers Building. The elevator-man informed him that Miss Ferguson was a public stenographer. Two minutes later he was shaking hands with her.
She was as he remembered her—dark, lithe, rather grave-eyed just at present but with merriment latent in her face; and altogether feminine. Bowen would have been amazed had he realized how he himself was smiling as he seldom smiled.
“I’ve often heard Judge Lyman say that you were the squarest man he knew, Mr. Bowen,” said the girl frankly, and smiled as Bowen stammered dissent. “Nonsense! That is why I called on you. I’m up against it and don’t know what I should do.”
“Neither do I,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “What’s the trouble?”
“Well, my father was a business man in Tonopah. He died three years ago, leaving me alone. After his death, it developed that he had sunk all his money in Apex Crown stock; this was in the early days, you know. The stock looked valuable, but there was no immediate demand for it. Then gradually it went down, and stayed down—”
“How much stock?” demanded Bowen.
“Ten thousand shares.”
“Whew! Say, that was a shame! A shame—”
“No. My father had good judgment as a rule,” was the grave rebuke, and Bowen fell silent. The girl pursued her subject coolly. “This morning a broker looked me up and made me an offer of ten cents a share for the stock. I refused him, and he went up to twenty cents—”