“Thank you, Don,” smiled the girl; then, with a twinkle in her eyes: “Very few people call me Miss Evelyn.
Most every one addresses me either as Miss Coyd or just as—”
“Evelyn?” inquired Jurrick.
The girl nodded.
“Remember it,” she remarked, as she turned to walk toward the front door.
Jurrick smiled. He watched the girl's departure, feeling pleased because Evelyn chose to meet him on less formal terms. Upstairs, however, Tabbert was staring downward; his fists clenched, his teeth gritted.
Tabbert had known Evelyn for years; for he came from her father's home town. An adoring swain, secretly in love with the congressman's daughter, he resented the favor that she had shown to the smooth−mannered Jurrick.
WHILE this bit of drama was in progress, Congressman Coyd had chosen to discuss more serious matters with Doctor Borneau. Seated in the living room, Coyd was explaining his present trouble.
“I feel better, doctor,” he stated. “Much better; and yet, in a sense, I am worse. Physically, I am comfortable; but my brain is in a whirl. It has been, for the past two days.”
Reaching to the table. Coyd produced some newspaper clippings and handed them to the physician. They were interviews, given the day before. Borneau read them solemnly.
“These show lucidity, Mr. Coyd,” decided Borneau. “Your statements are proof of your good reasoning.
Simple facts regarding the amount of time it will take to complete investigations.”
“The statements were all right, doctor, when I read them.”
“When you read them?”
“Just this, doctor. I don't remember having given those orders. I rested from dinner on till supper. But when I read those clippings this morning I was amazed. I questioned my secretaries, tactfully, of course. They told me that at four−thirty I had gone down to interview the reporters. I can't understand it. I can't even remember going downstairs.”
Doctor Borneau shook his head and smiled seriously. He waved a warning finger. “The overwork again, Mr.
Coyd.”
“Is my condition serious, doctor?”
“No. It's merely a state of temporary aphasia. To explain it would involve a lot of medical terms, but it is not dangerous.”
“But will it become worse, doctor?”
“Not if you are careful. Do not worry. Above all do not discuss it with persons.”
“But if I should have another interview, if I say things without realizing it—”
“Ah! You are worrying already!” Doctor Borneau smiled triumphantly. “You see what I mean? What I have told you, you must do. Do not worry. That is my advice, Mr. Coyd. To−morrow you will start on your vacation. It will do you good.”
There was a rap at the door; Coyd called to enter. Jurrick entered, bringing a square box that formed a heavy weight. Coyd smiled.
“Open it, Jurrick,” he ordered. “It must be the bronze bust for the State capital.”
“One moment,” remarked Doctor Borneau. “The medicine must first be taken. Go, young man, and prepare it.”
Jurrick went to the medicine chest and began to remove the bottles. He paused; then turned doubtfully, just as Tabbert arrived from the hall.
“Which ones do I use, sir?” inquired Jurrick. “Just what is the mixture? How much of each?”
“Tabbert will prepare the medicine,” responded Coyd. “You open the box in the meantime, Jurrick.”
TABBERT took over Jurrick's task. He had completed the mixing of the medicine just as Jurrick finished opening the box. The bronze bust came into view while Coyd was gulping down the contents of his glass.
“It flatters me,” grumbled Coyd. “It is too healthy−looking. It has my scar”—he rubbed his chin—“but the face is fuller than mine.”
“It was taken from your own casts, sir,” reminded Jurrick. “You have not changed so greatly in these few weeks.”
“You look unusually well, sir,” added Tabbert, comparing Coyd's face with that of the bust. “You do change, though, Mr. Coyd. Sometimes you look quite differently—even on the same day, sir—”
“That is enough,” interrupted Doctor Borneau. “Do not worry my patient. Indisposition makes the face become hard; sometimes, it will give a relax, very strongly, afterward.”
“Put the bust on the mantelpiece,” ordered Coyd, rising and stretching his arms. “Keep it up here, where reporters never come.” he yawned; then laughed: “I don't want those pests bringing troublesome photographers here with them.”
Coyd started toward the bedroom. Tabbert put a question as the congressman reached the door.
“You intend to take a nap, sir? What if the reporters should come this afternoon?”
“Come up,” replied Coyd, “and if I am awake, tell me that they are here. If I am asleep, do not disturb me.”
With that, Coyd entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. Doctor Borneau accompanied the secretaries downstairs; then left the house. As the physician stepped into a taxicab, a man across the street eyed him from a parked coupé.
It was Walbert; the watching dick made a note of the time, then leaned back behind the wheel to wait.
Nothing to be gained, he thought, by watching Coyd's house when no visitors were there. In fact, Walbert was convinced that nothing was due to happen within that house to−day.
In that guess, the dick was wrong. Already, important events had brewed. Deep−laid plans of schemers had gained proven strength. The crisis that Senator Releston feared had arrived. A thrust that involved millions of ill−gained dollars was ready for delivery, with all its staggering consequences.
CHAPTER VIII. THE INTERVIEW.
GATHERING clouds had brought an overcast sky during the period of Doctor Borneau's visit at the home of Congressman Layton Coyd. As hours lapsed, heavy gloom enveloped the old mansion, as if the very elements were themselves presaging ill.
Swirling wind, pattering rain; these obscured the outside scene. To Walbert, watching Coyd's house from his rain−swept coupé, the house lights were splotches amid the dull mass of darkness formed by the brownstone house front.
Noting that the lower story was alone aglow, the mustached dick began to speculate on the possibility of further visitors.
If others came, Walbert realized that it would be difficult to recognize them, without parking closer to the house. He preferred to remain where he was, at an angle, across from Coyd's residence. Muttering angrily, Walbert shifted in his seat. As he did, he fancied that he heard a scraping sound from the back of the car.
Shifting, jolting up and down, the dick tried to gain a repetition of the sound. There was none; instead, the driving of the rain became more apparent. The windshield and the windows were clouding; Walbert was feeling warm. So he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and began to polish the mist from the glass, at the same time tossing his Derby hat to the seat beside him.
INSIDE Coyd's mansion, the atmosphere was morose. The lower hall was poorly lighted; the stairs were obscure; while the passage that led beyond the stairway was almost totally dark. A loud−ticking grandfather's clock was pointing to twenty−five minutes after four when Tabbert, a book beneath his arm, emerged sleepily from the front library on the ground floor. The red−haired secretary strolled toward the stairs.
“Tabbert! Where are you going?”
The hail came from the passage beyond the stairway. Tabbert paused as Jurrick came into view. Pausing, Tabbert scowled; then decided to reply.
“Upstairs,” he reported, curtly. “To see if Mr. Coyd is awake. It's nearly time for the reporters.”
“I know that,” smiled Jurrick. “So does Mr. Coyd. That is why he came downstairs while you were day−dreaming in the library. He is in his study; he wants to see you there.”