IV—BOWEN HOLDS THE ACE.
Bob Bowen reentered the office, closed the door, set his chair against it, and sat down. Then he regarded the surprised and frowning “broker.”
Mr. Henderson was a man to be seen once and remembered. He had a large nose, thin slits of black hawk-eyes, shaggy black brows, and a thin red line of mouth under a closed-clipped mustache. An able man, a forceful man, an unscrupulous man, this confidential agent of the magnate Dickover! Bowen, however, did not appear to be much impressed.
“You wonder why I’m sitting against the door, Mr. Henderson?” he drawled, chewing at his cigar. “For the obvious reason. To keep you from getting out.”
Henderson stiffened. He was startled and taken aback. But Bowen continued his drawl without observing the agitation of the impeccably dressed agent.
“There’s silver,” he ruminated, “and silver. Bar-silver used to be forty-seven; now it’s over ninety and still climbing. A low-grade ore that cost eight dollars a ton to produce a few months ago and gave back eight dollars, was no good. Now, however, it gives back eight dollars’ profit and is a paying proposition. Those claims I sold you are that kind.
“Some day, and I guess it isn’t very far off, folks are going to discover a chemical process that will take a zinc-silver ore and separate the zinc and the silver. An ore of that kind to-day, isn’t worth a tinker’s dam. If that chemical process is discovered, it will be worth millions. And tucked up in my sleeve I’ve got a property just like that.”
Henderson rose impressively.
“See here, Bowen,” he observed, “I don’t see what you’re driving at, but if you mean that I can’t leave this room—”
“You can leave it pretty quick,” drawled Bowen. “But remember one thing! I’d like nothing better than to mix it with you! I’m just itching to hold you in a corner and pound off that big nose of yours; so don’t start anything unless you want me to finish it.”