“Not me,” said Bowen emphatically. “Bob Bowen does not intend to become a hanger-on and a parasite, with his nerves snapping and bursting all to h—all to thunder! You call me up at the Palace when I’m broke or when the deal is over.”
Ten minutes later Bowen and Miss Ferguson returned to the street.
“Please don’t call a taxi!” The girl laughed. “It’s such—such an awful waste of money—and I’d much sooner walk!”
“We’ll be millionaires on this deal; we should worry! However, I’m with you. Let’s walk. Where next?”
“Where? Why, I’ll have to get back to the office—”
“The office? And you a potential millionaire?”
She laughed, and not nervously this time. Bowen’s air was infectious.
“I think I’ll hang on to that office, Mr. Bowen! Anyway, I’ve promised to turn out some work by to-night.”
They walked along in silence until they reached the Crothers Building. At the entrance the girl paused and turned to Bowen.
“You haven’t told me what you expect to do with that mine—when we get it!”