“Has Mr. Coyd been sick?” inquired Harry in an undertone.
“The congressman has suffered from heat strokes and nervousness,” replied Jurrick. “Doctor Borneau happened to be in Washington and arranged to act as consultant. He's been on the case several months. He happens to remain in Washington as he is preparing a series of speeches on Oriental diseases.”
Before Harry could add a comment to the conversation, another young man joined the group. He had shocky, red hair and a freckled face; he shook hands with Harry awkwardly.
“Hugh Tabbert, my fellow secretary,” stated Jurrick. “Tabbert comes from the congressman's home State, while I'm an extra hand here in Washington. Tabbert knows all the home−town politicians by their front names. That's where he had the edge on me.”
Jurrick's tone was jocular and friendly; but Tabbert seemed to resent it. Harry took that as an admission of inferiority on Tabbert's part; for Jurrick had obviously meant the remark as nothing more than a mild jest.
“Tabbert!” Coyd snapped the order from his chair. “Come here. Doctor Borneau wants to question you about my medicine.”
TABBERT approached the pair; Borneau, holding the congressman's pulse, questioned him mildly, in a foreign accent.
“You have been exact with the doses?” inquired the physician.
“Just as close to the dot as I can make them, sir.” returned Tabbert.
“That is good.” Borneau nodded. “Yes. Very good. We shall keep them on. Maybe perhaps one little change—”
He paused and drew a pad from his pocket. He made notations and handed them to Tabbert; then glanced at his watch and nodded.
“I'm tired, doctor,” complained Coyd, his tone showing irritability. “What good is medicine—treatment—if everything continues to annoy me? My mind seems bewildered—whirling—”
“Too much of the overwork,” interposed Doctor Borneau, with a smile. “Ma foi, m'sieu'! Of what good can be the medicine if you do not give the cooperation?”
“I suppose you're right, doctor,” grumbled Coyd. “By the way, Tabbert”—Coyd addressed the dull−faced secretary, who was stirring a glass of liquid—“what have you heard from Lucian? When does he intend to have that bust finished?”
“In a few days, sir,” responded Tabbert. “He will bring it here, sir, for your approval.”
“Be sure he does so.” Coyd glowered angrily. “Bah! Such delay! I was afraid he had broken another cast and would want me to go through another of those plagued sittings. Such things annoy me!” Coyd's voice had become harsh, his fists were upraised and twitching. “Confound it! Everything annoys me! This place is becoming a madhouse—”
Coyd was coming to his feet, gesturing wildly as he flung aside the blanket that encircled his legs. Doctor Borneau sprang forward and gripped the congressman's arm. At a gesture from the physician, Tabbert set down the glass and lent his aid. Under their combined pressure, Coyd subsided. He huddled in his chair, muttering as he thrust his fingers through his shocky, black hair.
Harry Vincent had watched the quick changes that had come over the congressman; then looked toward Jurrick. Something in his glance made the friendly secretary realize that an explanation was necessary; for Jurrick gave one in an undertone.
“Mr. Coyd seldom has such outbursts,” was Jurrick's whisper. “Certain matters arouse his anger; the matter of the bust is one of them. The native sons want a bronze bust of Mr. Coyd for the state capital. They have been pestering him for its delivery.”
“And the bust is nearly ready?”
“Yes. A sculptor named Lucian is molding it from a plaster cast. That is what is causing the delay. A few months ago, Lucian took a mask impression direct from Mr. Coyd's face. It was accidentally broken, and he had to take a new one. That irritated Mr. Coyd, and justifiably—for those sittings were a nuisance. But the bust is almost done at last—”
Jurrick broke off and turned toward the door. He bowed and advanced to meet an attractive girl who was entering from the hall. Harry heard the secretary address her as Miss Coyd; he knew that this must be the congressman's daughter.
COYD opened his eyes wearily, then smiled pleasantly as his daughter approached. An attractive brunette, trimly attired, the girl had arrived as a welcome visitor. She leaned forward and kissed her father's forehead; then sat down in a chair which Tabbert clumsily placed beside the congressman's big chair.
“Hello, Evelyn,” said Coyd, slowly. “You seem very cheerful to−day, dear. Are you all ready for your vacation in Virginia?”
“The lodge is opened, daddy.” returned the girl, brightly. “The servants are just waiting for us to come there.”
“For us?”
“Certainly. You are going with me, daddy.”
Coyd shook his head. The girl turned appealingly to Doctor Borneau. The physician spoke to Coyd.
“A trip to Virginia would do you good, sir,” declared the doctor. “It is part of my prescription. At the same time, Miss Coyd, I believe that it would be for the best if your father should rest before the journey.”
“That's right,” rumbled Coyd, becoming more active. “Run on down to Virginia, Evelyn. Stay there at the lodge. I shall join you later.”
“Very well.” The girl paused after giving agreement. Then: “Would you mind, daddy, if I took a friend to Virginia with me?”
“A friend? Who?”
“Beatrice Rydel.”
COYD came upward in his chair. He glared angrily at his daughter and began to pound his fist upon a table that was beside him.
“Dunwood Rydel's own daughter!” stormed Coyd. “Why should you be friendly with her, of all persons? Her father and I are enemies, Evelyn—”
“But Beatrice and I are friends.”
“Perhaps. Nevertheless, that is no reason to invite her to visit you.”
“Please, daddy, don't stir yourself into another temper. Beatrice won't annoy you if she visits with me.”
“Maybe not.” Coyd settled back in his chair. “After all, the girl is nothing but an empty−headed chatterbox; and I've put up with many of that sort in the State legislature. Very well, Evelyn; take her to Virginia with you.”
That matter settled, Coyd glanced across the room and spied Harry Vincent. He had practically forgotten the stranger's presence. Coyd decided that it was time to discuss business.
“I welcome your visit, Mr. Vincent.” he declared. “Senator Releston tells me that you are to serve as his own representative. An excellent plan, for it will enable me to keep better contact with the senator. I agree on the point that he and I should cooperate.
“There is nothing, however, for us to discuss to−day. My mind is burdened with troublesome details; after they are cleared, I shall send for you, Mr. Vincent. Good day, sir, and my regards to Senator Releston.”
It was an abrupt dismissal, yet not intended as a rude one. Harry understood that Coyd's thoughts were hectic at present.
GOING down the brownstone step, Harry engaged in a flurry of thoughts. He had learned trivialities in this first visit to Coyd's; yet in that mass of chaff there might be some point of value.
Coyd's indisposition, Doctor Borneau's presence, the congressman's irritability over the matter of the delayed bust—these were facts worth noting. Most important, however, was the information that Beatrice Rydel was to be Evelyn Coyd's guest at the country residence which Congressman Coyd had take in Virginia.
This would be of interest to The Shadow, thought Harry, as he entered his sedan and drove away. Convinced in that impression, he was too occupied to notice present points that he should have observed.