“He—what?” broke out Bowen. “Twenty cents?”
“Yes. I told him that I’d give him my answer to-morrow. The paper said that you were largely interested in low-grade ores, and I thought you might know something about this Apex Crown. If it’s really worth anything, of course I don’t want to throw it away—”
“Hold on a minute!” Bowen drew forth an afternoon paper which he had bought and had stuffed into his overcoat pocket without reading. “I don’t know anything definite, but if anything has broken loose—ah! Here we are! Look at this!”
Excitedly he laid on the desk before her the opened paper. His finger pointed to an obscure paragraph—a list of curb stocks. The first stock was Apex Crown. Five thousand shares had changed hands, at a price of five cents, before the paper had gone to press.
“Now, see here, Miss Ferguson!” exclaimed Bowen. “Yesterday on the train, I met Mr. Dickover; the big plunger, you know! He said to buy Apex Crown. Naturally, I thought he was handing me a stinger by way of a joke. But here five thousand shares have changed hands to-day! Do you realize that for the last year or two nobody would have that stock at any figure? And here a broker comes to you with an offer for your block—”
They stared at each other, wordless. A touch of crimson crept into the girl’s cheeks. Their eyes exchanged the same message of comprehension, of surmise.
“You think,” said the girl suddenly, “that Dickover is taking control of Apex Crown?”
Bowen was silent for so long that the silence became painful.
“No,” he returned at last. “No. I don’t think he is. My cool judgment says he is not. But what’s judgment anyhow? You hang on to that stock, Miss Ferguson!”
She flushed a little, but her eyes dwelt on his. “I—I need the money it would bring at twenty cents,” she faltered. “And yet—look here, Mr. Bowen! I suppose you’re a very busy man and I have no right to ask it—”