“Twelve years. Part of the time I’m at the Bogota office.”
“Tell us a little about the Last Chance mine,” Mr. Livingston urged.
“Nothing to tell. Emerald mining is a government monopoly here, but an American outfit got a concession. The best emeralds in the world are found in Colombia.” For the first time, since the Scouts had met him, Mr. Baronni showed enthusiasm. “The Last Chance has been worked off and on before the coming of the Spaniards. But the mine’s playing out. Since your friend Corning took over, production has dropped alarmingly. Any day now I expect to get word from the company to close down completely.”
“Sounds rather discouraging,” Mr. Livingston commented. “What seems to be the trouble?”
“Corning doesn’t know how to handle the Indians. They steal him blind. Another thing, the mine is playing out. It’s up to him to find another vein of emeralds, and find it quick. The former engineer should have been left in charge.”
Mr. Livingston eyed the agent thoughtfully, but made no comment. It had been apparent from the first, that Ferd Baronni had no love for Appleby Corning.
“Want to see some emeralds?” the agent invited, pulling himself reluctantly from a swivel chair.
From an old-fashioned safe, he removed a cigar box. Almost reverently, he fingered a handful of large emeralds contained within. One which he offered Mr. Livingston was soft to the touch, very dark in color and had smoldering fire.
Another, somewhat smaller, was a shade lighter. Instead of having a subdued glow, it seemed to blaze with flame.
“Now this one’s a first quality emerald,” the agent informed the awed group. “We ain’t getting many of ’em any more from the Last Chance.”