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.”