“He says he is pretty sick and he can’t talk business very long,” said the bell boy.

“We won’t bother him very much,” answered the man who had given his name as Anderson.

Joe happened to be close by during this conversation and he looked the man called Anderson over with care.

“I’ve seen that man, too!” he declared to himself.  “But where?  I declare he is as much of a mystery as the sick one!”

Our hero’s curiosity was now aroused to the highest pitch, and when the two men walked up to David Ball’s room he followed to the very doorway.

“Come in,” came from the room, and a deep groan followed.  On the bed lay the man from Montana, wrapped in several blankets and with a look of anguish on his features.

“Feeling pretty bad, eh?” said Anderson, as he stalked in.  “I am downright sorry for you.”

“I’m afraid I am going to die,” groaned the man in bed.  “The doctor says I am in bad shape.  He wants me to take a trip to Europe, or somewhere else.”

“This is Mr. Maurice Vane,” went on Anderson.  “We won’t trouble you any more than is necessary, Mr. Ball.”

“I am sorry to disturb you,” said Maurice Vane.  He was a kindly looking gentleman.  “Perhaps we had better defer this business until some other time.”

“Oh, no, one time is as bad as another,” came with another groan from the bed.  “Besides, I admit I need money badly.  If it wasn’t for that—­“.  The man in bed began to cough.  “Say, shut the door,” he went on, to the first man who had come in.

The door was closed, and for the time being Joe heard no more of the conversation.

It must be admitted that our hero was perplexed, and with good reason.  He felt certain that the man in bed was shamming, that he was hardly sick at all.  If so, what was his game?

“Something is surely wrong somewhere,” he reasoned.  “I wish I could get to the bottom of it.”

The room next to the one occupied by David Ball was empty and he slipped into this.  The room contained a closet, and on the other side was another closet, opening into the room the men were in.  The partition between was of boards, and as the other door stood wide open, Joe, by placing his head to the boards, could hear fairly well.

“You have the stock?” he heard Maurice Vane ask.

“Yes, in my valise.  Hand me the bag and I’ll show you,” answered the man in bed.  “Oh, how weak I feel!” he sighed.

There was a silence and then the rustling of papers.

“And what is your bottom price for these?” went on Maurice Vane.

“Thirty thousand dollars.”

“I told Mr. Vane you might possibly take twenty-five thousand,” came from the man called Anderson.

“They ought to be worth face value—­fifty thousand dollars,” said the man in bed.

A talk in a lower tone followed, and then more rustling of papers.

“I will call to-morrow with the cash,” said Maurice Vane, as he prepared to leave.  “In the meantime, you promise to keep these shares for me?”