But it was sunshine, freedom from worry, that brought about my full recovery.”
“You have our congratulations, Mr. Coyd,” assured Releston. “Let us hope that you will not plunge into overwork. That is one thing to be avoided.”
“I can't promise you that,” remarked Coyd. “I have work to do and I intend to do it. If I tire, I shall take another rest. But I promise you this, senator. I shall give no interviews to the press.”
“You have decided definitely to make no public statements regarding committee procedures?”
“Not exactly, senator. Two days from now, I intend to speak before the National Progress Society, at their semiannual banquet. My speech will be broadcasted over a national network. However, I shall give you a full copy of it beforehand and—”
“Do not be too optimistic, Mr. Coyd,” put in Doctor Borneau. “Remember, sir, what I told you. Starting once again at the hard work may mean a strain. It is for me to say if you can go to the banquet.”
“Of course, doctor,” nodded Coyd. “Of course, if I am not well, I shall not attend the banquet. In that case, I shall broadcast from here. Those at the banquet will hear my speech over the loud−speaker. That can all be arranged, doctor.”
“You have a good physician, Mr. Coyd,” stated Releston. “Doctor Borneau and I met at dinner last Wednesday night.”
“Where, senator?”
“At the French Embassy. We were together all evening, in fact until long after midnight. Incidentally, doctor, I have not forgotten all those facts that you mentioned regarding nervous ailments. I was greatly impressed by the tremendous scope of your knowledge and experience.”
“Thank you, senator,” observed Borneau, with a bow; then, twisting the points of his mustache, he added: “I must return the compliment, m'sieu'; your knowledge of the government exceeds that knowledge which I have of medicine and—”
“Wednesday night!” interposed Coyd. “That was the night that some one murdered that fellow Weed. I am sorry that he met with such sudden death; but I must also express gratification that there is one less lobbyist in Washington. He pestered you, senator, just as he did me.”
“I HAVE not seen Weed for several weeks,” recalled Releston. “The last time was before you arrived, Crozan. Let me see—Weed was never about since you have been stopping at the Barlingham.”
“No,” returned Crozan. “Not unless it was during that short interval that I went home to obtain those documents on the mining investigation. I arrived back here just after the robbery at your apartment.”
“Yes. Of course, Weed was not about at that time. If he had been, I would have blamed him definitely for the theft of those duplicate papers. Do you know, Crozan, this murder makes me wonder about that matter.”
“You mean that Weed might have been slain because he had the papers.”
“Yes. It is quite a possible theory. I have not mentioned it to the police, however, as I did not want to stir up new comment.”
“Of course not. You told the press that the papers were of little consequence. Incidentally, the newspapers said that Weed's suite showed no signs of having been rifled.”
“The murderer might have known where he had the papers.”
“Yes. That is true—”
Crozan paused as Jurrick entered. The secretary had been downstairs. He was coming in to announce a visitor. Something in his expression indicated surprising news. Jurrick spoke to Coyd:
“Mr. Rydel is here, sir.”
“What!” exclaimed the congressman. “Dunwood Rydel? What does he want?”
“He did not say, sir.”
“Show him up.”
EXPECTANT silence still held the group when Dunwood Rydel entered. The dyspeptic magnate was as sour−faced as usual. He nodded curtly when he saw Releston; glowered as he looked at Crozan. Then he advanced and spoke directly to Coyd.
“Sorry to annoy you with this visit,” declared Rydel, gruffly. “It is paternal duty, not friendship that brought me here. I came to ask about my daughter.”
“Ah, yes,” nodded Coyd. “Your daughter Beatrice is still in Virginia, with Evelyn. I saw both of them this morning, before I left.”
“I suppose that Beatrice was all broken up when she received that letter yesterday?”
“What letter? She did not speak of it to me.”
“I wrote her from New York, telling her about that fiancé of hers. I saw a report that the bounder had eloped with some French actress in London. At least that was the rumor.”
“Yes, yes!” exclaimed Coyd, chuckling as he rose to his feet. “I remember it now, Mr. Rydel. It was Evelyn who told me about the matter; not Beatrice. Your daughter, it appears, was indignant, rather than broken−hearted. But I did not know that she had learned the news through a letter from you.”
“Allow me, Mr. Rydel.” Coyd paused, chuckling, and extended his hand, which the magnate received half hesitating. “Allow me, sir, to extend my full congratulations. You have been freed from the menace of a most undesirable son−in−law.”
“Thank you, Mr. Coyd,” acknowledged Rydel, ending the handshake. He was smiling in spite of himself. “Of all the conceited dolts I ever encountered, that actor was the worst. Montgomery Hadwil! Bah! I would sooner have my daughter marry one of my chauffeurs!”
Turning about, Rydel looked at Releston. His smile faded as he addressed the senator.
“Well, sir,” said the magnate, “I have finished my brief business with Mr. Coyd. Since you are present, senator, I take this opportunity to inform you that I have just arrived back in Washington. Should you wish to see me at any time, I shall be at my home.”
“You have been in New York all this while, Mr. Rydel?”
Rydel swung about. The question had come from Foster Crozan. This interference in Rydel's affairs apparently enraged the magnate.
“I said,” he repeated, “that I arrived back in Washington this morning. Where I have been during the interim is my business. Not yours, Crozan.”
Abruptly, Rydel turned on his heel and strode stormily from the room. Coyd, head tilted to one side, watched the magnate's departure rather curiously; then signaled to Tabbert to descend and usher Rydel from the house.
Jurrick went over to the medicine chest and began to take out bottles. Doctor Borneau spoke to the secretary.
“Mr. Coyd has taken his prescription,” stated the physician. “Tabbert prepared it. He will need no more medicine until to−morrow.”
Coyd had seated himself heavily. He looked weary as he beckoned to Jurrick. Doctor Borneau showed an expression of sudden anxiety.
“Prepare those reports, Jurrick,” ordered Coyd. Then, to his visitors: “Gentlemen, I am weary. My mind is befogged again; probably through over−effort. Bah! Rydel coming in here like a wild beast! I tried to humor the man; to show him some consideration. He is impossible!”
DOCTOR BORNEAU motioned to Senator Releston. The gray−haired solon nodded and spoke to Crozan and Harry. The two followed him downstairs; they encountered Tabbert on the way and the secretary conducted them to the front door. They entered Releston's sedan; this time there was no coupé parked opposite.
“What do you think of Rydel?” Releston asked Crozan as Harry drove them back toward the Barlingham.
“Do you think he had some purpose in visiting Coyd? Do you believe that he saw my car outside? That he made a pretext for entering?”
“It would not surprise me,” answered Crozan. “That was why I challenged him. Did you notice how abruptly he treated me?”
“Of course, Crozan, your question was rather pointed.”
“I meant it to be. Here was my reason, senator. Rydel went to New York the morning after Coyd's statement to the press. That was significant. It meant, logically, that Rydel wanted to be on hand for the rise in the stock market.”