“You’re right. I wouldn’t! It’s because you _are_ a woman that I want you for partner in this business; I need you! Fighting for myself, I’d be apt to do any fool trick. But with your interests hanging on mine, fighting for you as well as for myself, saddled with the responsibility of your trust and your future—why, I’d fight like _hell_! Excuse me. I didn’t mean that profanely, but literally. “I tell you frankly, Miss Ferguson, you’d be an inspiration to any man! I don’t talk like this to every woman. I’ve never _felt_ like this before in my life. I never met you before, that’s the reason! When I say I need you for a partner, I mean just that. “Get angry if you want to; I can’t help it. This isn’t a question of what money you can put in. You can put in your block of stock, for that matter; the rest is personality, outbalancing all the money on earth! You can help me with your advice, your character. I’m not offering you charity, God knows! “Now, it’s up to you—my cards are on the table. Say no, and I’ll give you ten thousand for your stock. Say yes, and we’ll go into the game as fighting partners. Which is it?” In his appeal was force and something better than force—earnestness. Alice Ferguson recognized it. She worked for her living, and had learned to know something of what might lie beneath the words of a man. She saw that Bowen’s speech might be crude and a bit too frank; but she saw that he meant it. She read down to the good honest soul of the man from Tonopah, and found honesty there. She realized that he did indeed need her; that it would be a coward’s part to fail him. And he was a man to trust. “Yes,” she said, her eyes grave. Bowen relaxed suddenly, drew a long breath like a sigh. He had been tremendously keyed up to that moment. “Then let’s go,” he said, rising. “Let’s go see Gus Saunders.” VI—POTENTIAL MILLIONAIRES. Once they were settled in a taxicab, Bowen produced the five thousand in notes, removed the rubber-bands from the package, and counted out twenty fifties. “Here.” He handed the girl ten of the yellow-backs. “I need expense money and so do you. Five hundred apiece will do.” “But—” “No time to be squeamish! We’re partners. This is an advance on the profits.” Miss Ferguson offered no further objection. They found Gus Saunders awaiting them in his private office. A conservative broker, this, albeit a young man; by inheritance the junior head of a big firm; clean-cut in every line, and a good sportsman. Bowen had frequently met him at Tonopah. “Miss Ferguson, allow me to introduce Mr. Saunders. Miss Ferguson is my partner at present, Gus, in a deal we’ve got on hand; looks like a big one, and we need your help.” “That’s my business,” and the broker smiled. “There’s a curb stock by the name of—” “Hold on!” Saunders flung up his hands. “Don’t talk curb stock to me. Don’t touch the stuff, and you ought to know it!”