“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.