“Yep,” he said abruptly, ending his thoughts in speech before he could check the impulse, “I guess that was good advice. I’ll go to the Palace.” The fat man eyed him shrewdly, but Bowen was again lost in frowning thought. At eight that evening the Limited was “in.” Bowen took a taxi up to the Palace. When he stepped up to the register of the big Market Street hostelry, he found his way blocked by the bulky figure of the fat man, who had just finished signing. The fat man turned from the desk, saw Bowen, and took him by the arm. “Say!” he exclaimed. “Just a minute, Bowen. I want to thank you, old man, for that tip about my agent. I’ll sure bear it in mind. You’re all right!” Slapping Bowen on the shoulder, he departed after an obsequious bellhop. For a moment Bob Bowen did not understand that speech; but as he leaned over the register and saw the signature of the fat man, he gulped in sudden, stark amazement. Great glory! The fat man _was_ Dickover, after all! II—CALLED IN FOR CONSULTATION. That evident recognition, that low murmur of confidential speech, that friendly slap on the shoulder, turned the trick. This Robert Bowen of Tonopah was manifestly known to the great Dickover; was palpably a friend of the great Dickover; was clearly and openly a confidant of the great Dickover! Realizing this, Bowen grinned to himself as the desk clerk doffed all haughtiness and became cordially human. He realized it with greater emphasis as he turned from the desk and found a brisk young man at his elbow with extended card. “Mr. Bowen? I’m Harkness of the _Chronicle_. May I have two minutes of your time?” Bowen affected to eye the young man in consideration. Publicity! Well, why not? It might affect untold wonders for him. He was arriving in San Francisco unknown and unknowing. He had ore samples and assayers’ reports galore in his grip; but these might do him no good unless he got the impetus he needed. And publicity would give it to him. At least, publicity could not hurt him! “Sure,” he said, nodding toward the parlors. “Come along and sit down.” A moment later the two men pulled chairs together and relaxed comfortably. “Shoot,” commanded Bowen laconically. The reporter grinned. “I got a tip that you sold the Yellow Jack mine to Dickover for a million and—” “Pause right there, Harkness!” Bowen lifted his hand, but smiled in his whimsical, likable fashion. “You’ve got it wrong. Dickover has just bought the Yellow Jack, but not from me. Don’t start me off with a false report like that, for the love of Mike!” “Whew! Good thing you put me wise,” said Harkness frankly. “Well, do you mind telling me what mine you did sell to Dickover?”