“It sounds like the sort of phony name that I wouldn’t buy any gold mines from.”
“He sold Mother a gold mine,” Phelan said.
“Any gold in it?”
“I defy anyone to find any gold in this particular mine,” said Phelan sadly. “It’s the old Lucky Nugget. Opened up with a big whoop-de-do in 1906, beautiful vein of quartz, eighteen dollars to the ton; closed in 1907—no more quartz. No one’s made a nickel on it since — even the tailings are worked out. The stock, which is what Mother bought, wouldn’t even serve for wrapping fish.”
“There are laws,” suggested the Saint, “which take care of folks who misrepresent stocks and bonds to other people.”
“That’s the trouble,” said Phelan. “This Rochborne is an extremely smart operator. There’s nothing on record — including Mother’s own testimony — to prove he ever claimed there was any gold in the mine.”
“Didn’t she ask you about it?”
“What would you think? After all,” said Phelan bitterly, “I have only two degrees in engineering and one in mining. Why should anyone, even my own dear mother, consult me on such a topic? Obviously, a crystal ball and a turban put my credentials in the shade. I’ll admit,” he added, in less vehement tones, “I’ve been up to my ears in some very hush-hush stuff lately — uranium sources, if you must know. Top secret.”
“Keep your uranium,” said the Saint. “I don’t like the things they do with it. What is this stuff about crystal balls?”
“My blessed mother,” Phelan said reverently, “has developed an interest in the Occult. In this specific case, a soothsayer from the Mystic East.”