“Telephone, Mrs Phelan.” A maid stood in the doorway.
“Excuse me,” said Mrs Phelan. “Oh, dear!”
“Mrs Phelan,” said a deep mellifluous voice on the wire, “this is Swami Yogadevi.”
“Oh... oh, Swami!” The old lady sighed with relief. “Oh, I am so glad to hear from you!”
“Dear Mrs Phelan, you are in trouble. I know. I could feel the disturbance in your aura. That was why I called.”
“Oh, Swami! If you only knew... I — it’s my mining stock, Swami. The stock you said I should buy, remember? And now—”
“He wants to buy it back from you. Yes.”
“He... does...? Oh, then it’s all right...”
“Sell, Mrs Phelan. But for a profit, of course.”
“But how much should I—”