Bob Bowen hastened down to breakfast. He had learned that the magnate was keenly interested in Apex Crown—wanted to buy it himself. Why? The only plausible explanation was that Apex Crown had broken into a rich lode, and from his knowledge of the place Bowen thought this unlikely. At eight forty-five Bowen was striding toward the Crothers Building. He had plenty to puzzle him, but refused to let himself be puzzled. He needed that five hundred dollars and needed it very much. He went straight to Miss Ferguson’s office, and found her just arrived. She greeted him with patent surprise, but with a smile that left no doubt of his welcome. “Has that broker been here yet?” demanded Bowen bluntly. “That broker? Oh, no! He didn’t say what time he’d be here for his answer.” “He didn’t need to. I figure that nine o’clock will fetch him, and if you don’t mind, I want to sit around on the chance.” The girl looked away from him a moment, looked at the window, frowningly. “Of course I don’t mind,” she said at last. “Only—I don’t want you to lose your temper with him—” Bowen laughed frankly, a boyish laugh that was good to hear on his lips. “I never had any temper,” he said. “I’m the mildest little fellow you ever did see, Miss Ferguson! Honest. I’m a business man. Now, suppose you sit down and let me dictate a letter to Judge Lyman. I don’t mean to send it, but I mean your broker friend to hear me dictating. When he comes in, nod and smile and tell him to wait.” The girl sat down before her machine and slipped a sheet of paper into the roll. “All ready?” asked Bowen. “Then shoot!” “My dear Judge: “I’m here in the big town and having the time of my life. Them are the exact words. I yesterday met your erstwhile stenographer, Miss Ferguson, who has an office of her own and deserves it. I don’t know of any one I’d sooner have met—” Bowen paused, meeting the girl’s eyes on his. “That’s all right,” he said hurriedly. “I’m writing the judge. Confidential letter. Go ahead!” Smiling a little, the girl leaned forward. At that instant, however, the office door opened and a man appeared framed in the opening. Bowen gave him a casual glance. Miss Ferguson looked up and smiled—a bit frostily. “I’ll be through this letter in a moment,” she said, “and shall be at liberty then. Just take a chair, please. Yes, Mr. Bowen?” “Paragraph,” said Bowen, now staring past her at the window. He was conscious that the stranger had taken a chair. “You got that property location all straight now?” Miss Ferguson glanced up quickly, caught Bowen’s vacant expression, and smothered the surprise in her eyes. “Yes,” she said. “All ready.” Bowen proceeded with his dictation, apparently ignoring the listener. “For these two holdings of mine—the Sunburst and the Golden Lode—I want more money than has been offered me as yet. They are, of course, low-grade ore, and if I can get rid of them at a reasonable figure, I shall do so at once.