"I'll tell you what I'll do," said Mr. Buchard, when Joe had finished telling of Helen's fortune. "I'm going out of here in a couple of days. I'm getting much better—that is until the next attack. I'll get out my worthless certificates of stock in the Circle City Oil Syndicate, and bring you one. You can then see the names of the officers and directors, and can compare them with the names on Miss Morton's stock. If they are the same it's pretty sure to be the same company."
"And if it is," asked Joe, "would you advise her to sell out?"
"Sell out! My dear boy, I only hope she will be able to. I wish I had known in time—I'd have sold out quickly enough. I never should have bought the stuff. But it's too late to worry about that now. The money is lost.
"Yes, that's what I'll do. I'll bring you a stock certificate and you can compare it with Miss Morton's when you see her. Are you going out soon?"
"In a few days, I hope. I want to get back to the circus."
"I don't blame you. It isn't very cheerful here, though they do the best they can for you."
Mr. Buchard was as good as his word. The day after he left the hospital he came back to call on Joe.
"Here's a certificate," he said, handing over an elaborately engraved yellow-backed sheet of paper. "Take it with you, and show it to Miss Morton."
"Thank you," the young trapeze performer responded. "I'll mail yours back to you as soon as I've compared the names."
"Oh, you don't need to do that," said Mr. Buchard with a rueful laugh. "It isn't worth the price of a good cigar."