At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building. He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much.
He went straight to Miss Ferguson’s office, and found her just arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that left no doubt of his welcome.
“Has that broker been here yet?” demanded Bowen bluntly.
“That broker? Oh, no! He didn’t say what time he’d be here for his answer.”
“He didn’t need to. I figure that nine o’clock will fetch him, and if you don’t mind, I want to sit around on the chance.”
The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window, frowningly.
“Of course I don’t mind,” she said at last. “Only—I don’t want you to lose your temper with him—”
Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his lips.
“I never had any temper,” he said. “I’m the mildest little fellow you ever did see, Miss Ferguson! Honest. I’m a business man. Now, suppose you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don’t mean to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait.”
The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into the roll.