“Not a penny less than seventy thousand, Mrs Phelan. No, not a penny less. Peace be with you. Your star is in the ascendant. You will not say that I have talked to you, naturally. Good-bye.”
When Mr Melville Rochborne heard the price, he barely escaped being the first recorded case of human spontaneous combustion.
“But, Mrs Phelan... I’ve just told you. The stock is no — well, it’s been misrepresented. It’s not really worth the price you paid me. I thought if I gave you your money back...”
“The stars,” said Mrs Phelan raptly, “control my business dealings. I am asking seventy thousand for the stock.”
“Oh, sure, the stars.” Mr Rochborne thought rapidly. “May I use your telephone?”
He dialed a certain unlisted number for nearly five minutes, with the same negative results that had rewarded him even before he called at Mrs Phelan’s house. At the end of that time he returned, slightly frantic and flushed of face.
“Mrs Phelan,” he said, “we can discuss this, I know. Suppose we say fifty-five thousand.”
“Seventy, Mr Rochborne,” said Mrs Phelan.
“Sixty-two fifty,” cozened Rochborne, in pleading tones.
“Seventy,” repeated the implacable old lady.