She was as he remembered her—dark, lithe, rather grave-eyed just at present but with merriment latent in her face; and altogether feminine. Bowen would have been amazed had he realized how he himself was smiling as he seldom smiled. “I’ve often heard Judge Lyman say that you were the squarest man he knew, Mr. Bowen,” said the girl frankly, and smiled as Bowen stammered dissent. “Nonsense! That is why I called on you. I’m up against it and don’t know what I should do.” “Neither do I,” returned Bowen cheerfully. “What’s the trouble?” “Well, my father was a business man in Tonopah. He died three years ago, leaving me alone. After his death, it developed that he had sunk all his money in Apex Crown stock; this was in the early days, you know. The stock looked valuable, but there was no immediate demand for it. Then gradually it went down, and stayed down—” “How much stock?” demanded Bowen. “Ten thousand shares.” “Whew! Say, that was a shame! A shame—” “No. My father had good judgment as a rule,” was the grave rebuke, and Bowen fell silent. The girl pursued her subject coolly. “This morning a broker looked me up and made me an offer of ten cents a share for the stock. I refused him, and he went up to twenty cents—” “He—what?” broke out Bowen. “Twenty cents?” “Yes. I told him that I’d give him my answer to-morrow. The paper said that you were largely interested in low-grade ores, and I thought you might know something about this Apex Crown. If it’s really worth anything, of course I don’t want to throw it away—” “Hold on a minute!” Bowen drew forth an afternoon paper which he had bought and had stuffed into his overcoat pocket without reading. “I don’t know anything definite, but if anything has broken loose—ah! Here we are! Look at this!” Excitedly he laid on the desk before her the opened paper. His finger pointed to an obscure paragraph—a list of curb stocks. The first stock was Apex Crown. Five thousand shares had changed hands, at a price of five cents, before the paper had gone to press. “Now, see here, Miss Ferguson!” exclaimed Bowen. “Yesterday on the train, I met Mr. Dickover; the big plunger, you know! He said to buy Apex Crown. Naturally, I thought he was handing me a stinger by way of a joke. But here five thousand shares have changed hands to-day! Do you realize that for the last year or two nobody would have that stock at any figure? And here a broker comes to you with an offer for your block—” They stared at each other, wordless. A touch of crimson crept into the girl’s cheeks. Their eyes exchanged the same message of comprehension, of surmise. “You think,” said the girl suddenly, “that Dickover is taking control of Apex Crown?” Bowen was silent for so long that the silence became painful. “No,” he returned at last. “No. I _don’t_ think he is. My cool judgment says he is not. But what’s judgment anyhow? You hang on to that stock, Miss Ferguson!”