Bowen grinned and slipped the waiter a gold piece. They were in a corner of the big dining-room, and to themselves.
“Here, my friend! Keep everybody away from us and don’t bother us until I call you!” The waiter bobbed and departed, and Bowen drew a sigh of relief. “Now! We’ll wade in.”
He produced the packet of notes, and Dickover’s check for thirty thousand, and laid them on the table before him. Then he drew forth the message that had been brought him.
“Miss Ferguson, my proposition is simply this: That we go into partnership on the Apex Crown. This message is from Gus Saunders. The Apex Crown issued five hundred thousand shares, and the original holders unloaded everything about a year ago, so that the entire issue is on the market—or is divided between Henderson and Dickover. We’ve already figured out that by to-morrow most of that stock will be back on the market temporarily.”
“Until Dickover can swallow it at a gulp,” she added.
“Sure. That mine is highly valuable property—if the chemical process has really been discovered. That’s what I’m gambling on; I’m certain that in about another fortnight the mining world will get the news. So, then, let’s get busy! I propose that you and I step in at the psychological moment, when Dickover has scared Henderson into unloading; that we make a bold strike and gobble about three hundred thousand shares of that stock at the lowest figure. In short, that we grab the Apex Crown for ourselves! Are you game?”
He was leaning forward, his lean face tensed, his gray eyes holding her gaze.
For a moment she did not respond. When she did answer, her words surprised him.
“Mr. Bowen, I—I don’t see why you make this proposition to me. You have enough money there on the table to handle the affair yourself. I cannot put any money into it.”
“What! Then you don’t want to go into it? You have no faith in my theories?”