And if not—well, something would turn up.
“Yep,” he said abruptly, ending his thoughts in speech before he could check the impulse, “I guess that was good advice. I’ll go to the Palace.”
The fat man eyed him shrewdly, but Bowen was again lost in frowning thought.
At eight that evening the Limited was “in.” Bowen took a taxi up to the Palace. When he stepped up to the register of the big Market Street hostelry, he found his way blocked by the bulky figure of the fat man, who had just finished signing. The fat man turned from the desk, saw Bowen, and took him by the arm.
“Say!” he exclaimed. “Just a minute, Bowen. I want to thank you, old man, for that tip about my agent. I’ll sure bear it in mind. You’re all right!”
Slapping Bowen on the shoulder, he departed after an obsequious bellhop. For a moment Bob Bowen did not understand that speech; but as he leaned over the register and saw the signature of the fat man, he gulped in sudden, stark amazement.
Great glory! The fat man was Dickover, after all!
II—CALLED IN FOR CONSULTATION.
That evident recognition, that low murmur of confidential speech, that friendly slap on the shoulder, turned the trick. This Robert Bowen of Tonopah was manifestly known to the great Dickover; was palpably a friend of the great Dickover; was clearly and openly a confidant of the great Dickover!
Realizing this, Bowen grinned to himself as the desk clerk doffed all haughtiness and became cordially human. He realized it with greater emphasis as he turned from the desk and found a brisk young man at his elbow with extended card.