senator sat opposite him. Yet in Coyd's eyes was the semblance of a glare; the natural mistrustfulness that went with the man's self?styled independence.
“Let us come to facts, Mr. Coyd,” asserted Releston. “We do not require privacy. All present know the reason for my visit. I have come to ask you about the interview that you gave yesterday. Just what was its purpose?”
“I cannot answer you, senator,” groaned Coyd, wearily. “Please do not plague me with useless questions. My mind is burdened. I am leaving for a rest.”
“To Virginia?” inquired Crozan.
“Yes,” replied Coyd. “Doctor Borneau has advised it. I wish, gentlemen, that I had gone there sooner.”
“Then,” stated Releston, “I take it take you have regretted yesterday's interview.”
Coyd's eyes blazed. The congressman towered as he rose from his chair and raised his fist dramatically. His face took on a fullness; it showed its true likeness to the bronze bust on the mantelpiece.
“I regret nothing!” cried Coyd, reverting to his oratorical complex. “I stand upon my own record! I take no orders from others! Not from you, Senator Releston, nor from any man at all—”
“Even though you have done great harm,” interposed Releston, with a sad shake of his head. “Have you considered that, Mr. Coyd?”
The congressman subsided. The sorrow that was evident on Releston's face was something that Coyd had not expected. Despite his love of independence, Coyd was sympathetic. He subsided into his chair.
“Frankly, senator,” he declared. “I may have made a mistake. You must realize, though, that my urge is one of progress. I represent the people; it is their right to know of certain facts.”
“And your constituents include those rogues who are already reaping their evil harvest?”
“You mean that rogues were awaiting my statement regarding munitions control?”
“Exactly. They have probably bought up shares of stock for trivial sums. The market in such securities has started to rise. To?morrow—or in a few days—it will be soaring. Scamps knew the truth; they were prepared.”
COYD slumped and bowed his head in his hands. His voice came in a mutter; when he looked up his whole countenance showed haggard.
“Whatever I can do, senator—whatever I can do—”
“Your mistake cannot be rectified. You can, however, tell me one fact that may aid us in finding the culprits.
What caused you to issue your statement to the press?”
Coyd shook his head seriously.
“I do not know, senator,” he declared. “Oddly, I cannot answer the question.”
“Did any one approach you?”
“Certainly not! You know that I would never listen to outside suggestions!”..
“Something must have persuaded you. Can't you remember?”
In response to Releston's question, Coyd shifted uneasily. He glanced appealingly toward Doctor Borneau.
The physician nodded and stepped forward.
“You have named the ailment, senator,” declared Borneau, quietly. “Mr. Coyd cannot remember.”
“Cannot remember?”
“His mind has been overtaxed. He is subject to a mild form of aphasia. Not a serious condition; but one which causes a hiatus in his memory.”
“You say it is not serious!” exclaimed Releston. “Not serious, when it leads to such results as this?”
Emphatically, Releston picked up one of the morning newspapers and pointed to the headlines. Doctor Borneau smiled.
“I speak as a physician,” he reminded. “Not as a politician. I say that Mr. Coyd's condition is not serious, senator, because his brain is lucid. Read his statement; you will agree with me that it shows the efforts of a healthy mind.”
Releston looked puzzled. It was Coyd who tried to help the senator out of his dilemma.
“Yesterday,” Coyd explained, “I took a rest. I awoke from my nap shortly after four. I came downstairs; I met the reporters and gave the interview. I had words with Vincent, which I am forced to regret. Then I went back to nap and did not awaken until seven.”
Coyd paused; half pitifully. He looked toward Doctor Borneau, who delivered a prompting nod. Coyd pushed his fingers through his shock of black hair; then turned appealingly to Releston.
“Frankly, senator,” he admitted, “I cannot remember waking between those two naps.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Coyd,” Releston stated dryly, “your mental condition is so precarious that your best policy would be to resign the chairmanship of your committees.”
“Never!” retorted Coyd. “Hear what Doctor Borneau has said! My faculties are not below normal! I am alert, despite my nervousness. I can assure you of this; my statement yesterday was a clear one. I must have had reason to give it!
“Since I no longer recall the episode, I naturally have forgotten my reason also. That is a logical consequence.
I can assure you, however, that I must have acted on my own. I take orders from no one!”
“What do you think of it, Crozan?” inquired Releston. “Should I insist upon this matter?”
“It will do you no good, senator,” stormed Coyd, suddenly. “No one can force me to abandon my normal rights. I shall retain my position of authority!”
“Suppose Mr. Coyd should resign,” suggested Crozan, speaking straight to Releston. “Who would head the committees? Is there any one competent to replace him?”
“No!” exclaimed Coyd, bursting into the discussion. “Matters would be worse, Releston. Three or four men would be required to fill my place. There would be conflict; moreover, Congress has ended its session. Who would appoint those committee heads?”
CROZAN appeared troubled; he was impressed by Coyd's statement. So, for that matter, was Releston.
Worried, the senator looked to The Shadow, who was leaning by the mantel, puffing a cigarette that extended from its long holder.
“What do you think, Cranston?” questioned the senator. “You have shown good analysis of this situation. Is there not some answer to our problem?”
“Mr. Coyd can supply the answer.” replied The Shadow, casually. He looked straight toward the congressman as he spoke. “Moreover, I think he may be willing to do so.”
“How?” queried Coyd. He was impressed by the magnetism of those focused eyes. “I am willing, sir, to listen to any reasonable request from Senator Releston. But when he tries to label me as a madman—”
“Senator Releston admits that he is wrong,” interposed The Shadow, quietly. “He accepts the statement made by both you and your physician. Your mental faculties are active. It is wise that you should continue in your high service to the government.”
Coyd was on his feet, his chest swelling as he listened to these flattering statements. The Shadow smiled solemnly.
“At the same time,” he added, “Senator Releston cannot ignore your own admission of poor memory. An admission, Mr. Coyd, that has also been backed by your physician. So, in full fairness to Senator Releston, you should take precautionary measures to offset any future lapse of memory.”
“How can I do that?”
“By agreeing to let Senator Releston read any public statement before you make it; and to discuss its wisdom with him. That, Mr. Coyd, would be a courtesy.”
Releston spoke up promptly.
“A courtesy which I shall gladly return,” he assured. “I shall inform you of any public utterance which I intend to make, Mr. Coyd.”
Coyd nodded slowly. His expression showed that he had been conciliated.
“I agree,” he declared, emphatically. “But suppose I should forget? My memory is really bad—”
“You can instruct your secretaries,” interposed The Shadow. “Have them remind you that Senator Releston is to be informed beforehand of your statements.”
