Bowen smiled grimly. “Quite logical. Henderson will find that he gave me five thousand of his cash when he’s going to need it all. Before the market is quite smashed down to its original state, he’s going to loosen up on a big bunch of his stock. He’ll argue that at the right moment. When Dickover begins to buy in again, he, too, can step forward and get back his own—with some of Dickover’s to boot; enough to give him control.” “And,” cried the girl quickly, “Dickover knows that he’ll think so! With all his organization and power, Dickover will step in first! Before Henderson can do it, Dickover has done it. Is that the idea?” “Exactly.” Bowen puffed for a moment; that cigar was too good to be allowed to die. “Exactly. If Henderson does have the nerve to stick, Dickover will beat him anyhow. Now do you see what the game of Dickover is?” “I see. And I think I agree with you—Henderson will lack nerve. He’ll begin to unload his stock at four cents, will unload more at three, and throw off all of it at two to break even. Then, when he’s cleaned out of the stock, Dickover will rob the whole market!” “Bully for you!” exclaimed Bowen eagerly. “I knew you’d understand!” “Thank you.” She smiled, a trifle wanly. He saw that the strain of understanding had been telling upon her. After all, that block of stock was hers! “But I don’t understand yet why you refused Dickover’s offer for my stock; and I don’t understand why you sold him a mine at half its value!” “I sold him that mine because I was going to need the money right after lunch—and need it badly.” Bowen rose. “As for why I refused his offer, let that go until we have lunch. I’ve licked Henderson and Dickover this morning, which is going some; now I must add you to the list—and I need a stimulant before opening fire.” The girl made no demur. They sought the dining-room together; Bowen, no less than Alice Ferguson, was keyed up to a high tension by the big game, and the biggest game was still ahead of him—the hardest work. Midway through luncheon, Bowen was sought by special messenger and was handed a folded message. He put it in his pocket without reading, and smiled across the table. “Information for which I phoned. I don’t think much of brokers as a class, but I do know of one man in the game whom I’d trust—Gus Saunders. Ever hear of him?” The girl shook her head. Bowen switched the subject. He took pains to impress upon Miss Ferguson that he was not the magnate she had thought him. He felt impelled to stand upon a frankly honest footing with this level-eyed girl; he could do nothing else. “And it was meeting Dickover on the train and here at the hotel,” she said, laughter twinkling in her eyes, “that started you on this high finance wave? Good gracious! If I’d known that when you called up about the stock—” “Well? What would you have said?”