“Where? Why, I’ll have to get back to the office—” “The office? And you a potential millionaire?” She laughed, and not nervously this time. Bowen’s air was infectious. “I think I’ll hang on to that office, Mr. Bowen! Anyway, I’ve promised to turn out some work by to-night.” They walked along in silence until they reached the Crothers Building. At the entrance the girl paused and turned to Bowen. “You haven’t told me what you expect to do with that mine—when we get it!” “Do! Why, what did you suppose? Work it by the new chemical process, of course! Or else sell it outright; once the process is on the market, a mine like the Apex Crown will be a bargain at a million! Dickover knows. He said the stock would be worth five dollars a share—when he got ready to make it worth that!” “Very well.” Miss Ferguson put out her hand. “I’ll say good-by for this time and get back to work. You’ll let me know?” “You bet I will!” exclaimed Bowen heartily, seeking a pretext for detaining her, but finding none. He strode along to the Palace with his head in the clouds. Come to think of it, he had earned an afternoon of loafing! All the previous day he had been watching his plans go from bad to worse, despite the puff he had received in the paper. But at nine o’clock this morning things had begun to move, and they had continued to move with lightning rapidity. His brain had been on the jump keeping one step ahead. For five hours he had been under a growing mental strain which had told tenfold upon his iron-bound physical self. In five hours he had taken in thirty-five thousand, five hundred dollars, most of it from a man whom he could never have approached in an ordinary way. The whole thing had started with his meeting on the limited with Dickover and the drummer. And now the majority of that money had been laid out on a gamble which might—might—return millions! If he could grab enough of Henderson’s stock and Dickover’s stock combined, at the moment both men had unloaded; if he could step in ahead of Dickover and at the proper moment get control— “I’ve got to stop thinking about this thing,” he muttered fiercely. “It’s got my brain turning handsprings. There’s nothing for me to do, anyhow! Everything is in the hands of Gus Saunders now. I need a bracer, and I’m going to get it. Then I’ll buy some magazines and loaf a while.” Bowen was the type of man who takes a drink only when he really needs it, and does not need it often. Now he needed it, and straightway got it. Then he visited a few shops. Having bought some clothes and certain other things of which he stood in need, he returned to the hotel, deposited most of his five hundred in the hotel safe, and settled down in the lobby over some magazines. For half an hour he read and let his jangled nerves relax. He refused utterly to look up Apex Crown in the papers.