Suddenly he realized that his own name was being called by an evanescent page with a tray. “Mr. Bow-en! Mr. Bow-en!” Rising, Bowen attracted the attention of the buttoned autocrat and was handed a card. It read: “Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, Mineralogist.” “The gentleman’s at the desk? Send him up to my room in five minutes.” Bowen betook himself to the elevator. Who was Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle? The name was totally unknown to him. Arriving at his room, he sought the telephone directory, but found no such name listed. Mr. O. H. P. Cheadle proved to be a plump, chalky-faced little man with the bland countenance of a cherub. His eyelids blinked behind thick spectacles. His linen was dirty to a degree. He spoke with a slow hesitance in the selection of words. He shook hands with a limp, flaccid grip. “Mr. Bowen, may I request—er—a few moments of your—er—time? You are a very busy man, I know, but I believe that I have a—er—a proposition to interest you. I read of your being here in—er—the paper—” “Sit down and rest your heels,” said Bowen cordially, laughing to himself. So here was another result of his publicity! It was something to be a public character, to be classed with the great Dickover! Mr. Oliver Hazard Perry Cheadle, like a solemn little owl, went directly to business. He had just come to town from Arizona. He had a mine to sell. He had seen by the paper that Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, was heavily interested in low-grade silver properties. His holdings were not silver, but were copper-zinc, and he was so badly in need of ready money, _et cetera_. Bowen heard him out. After all, why not have a crack at everything that offered? Zinc-copper ore was not unattractive in prospect. “Besides, I’ve nothing to keep me busy,” he thought. And said aloud, “Let’s see the samples.” Mr. Cheadle was apologetic. The samples and assayer’s report were all at his own lodgings. He had not ventured to think that Mr. Bowen—er—would be interested offhand, and— “Well, let’s go have a look,” said Bowen, rising. The humility of Mr. Cheadle was slightly annoying. “Where are you stopping? Oh, don’t protest, man; I’m free for the day.” It appeared that Mr. Cheadle was stopping at a rooming-house just off Sutter Street. Together the two men descended to the street, where the magnate hailed a taxicab. Bob Bowen, of Tonopah, believed in enjoying affluence while he had it. The taxi sped out Sutter, crossed Van Ness, and a few blocks farther on veered to the left and halted before one of the extremely old-fashioned residences, high off the sidewalk, which in this section of the city had escaped the fire.