anything?”
“What have you got?”
“Nothing—except guesses. The market's good for them, I know, but these are bum ones.”
“I can't use them then.”
Garvey came in and stretched himself in a chair. He helped himself to one of the Clyde's cigarettes and began a resume.
“Regarding Mr. Coyd,” he remarked. “I should say the Honorable Mr. Coyd. Well, he's overworked. Jittery, contradictory, blunt with his best of friends—the reporters. I saw him two days ago and I saw him yesterday.
The first time he was haggard and worn out. The second time he was purple and angry. Never twice alike.”
“What did he have to say?”
“Nothing much. He gave some halfway interviews last week; but none this week. His daughter is coming on to Washington to visit him. His two secretaries are up to their necks in work. That's all.”
“Have you seen Senator Releston?”
“No. He gives no interviews, except by occasional appointment. Don't ask me if I've seen Dunwood Rydel. I haven't—that is, not to talk to. Nobody sees him. He's a sulker.”
“What about Weed?”
“Say—there's something, Burke. That guy's been bobbing in and out of town like a jack?in?the?box. Seeing the people he's lobbying for, I guess. You can't figure Weed—”
Garvey paused as the telephone rang. Clyde answered the call; a voice asked for Garvey. Clyde handed over the instrument; Garvey talked abruptly, then hung up.
“Come on!” he exclaimed. “That was Tuft, of the Interstate Press, giving me a hot tip. Senator Releston has reported a burglary up at his place. He's ready with an interview for all reporters. Let's go!”
THEY hurried from the office. In a taxicab, en route to the senator's home, Garvey gave more details, also supplying facts that he had meant previously to mention.
“Foster Crozan just arrived in town,” stated Garvey. “He's a man with a lot of money, mostly inherited, who's gone in for politics. He's taken the best way to do it; going in for investigations that will help the congressional committees.”
“Didn't Crozan help to uncover those lumber contracts?” inquired Clyde. “It seems to me he was mentioned prominently.”
“He did,” acknowledged Garvey, “and he's handed more good dope to the right people since. He's due to run for the Senate from his home State; and he's done plenty to talk about in his campaign. He's a friend of Releston's. Crozan has visited Releston before; and he's on again to learn things that will make him useful when he gets elected.”
The cab had pulled up in front of the Hotel Barlingham, an old but conservative edifice which Senator Releston had chosen for his Washington residence. Garvey kept quiet as he and Clyde sauntered through the lobby, then entered the elevator.
They alighted at the sixth floor and went to a corner suite. There they entered a lounge room; a secretary ushered them through a hallway and into an office. They found half a dozen newspaper men facing Senator Releston, who sat behind a large desk.
THE senator was a man of somewhat rugged features but his face was mild in expression. Gray hair added to the dignity of his appearance; and Releston's eyes were kindly, almost curious, as they surveyed the new arrival. Recognizing that Burke and Clyde were new representatives of the press, Releston proceeded with the statement that he had been about to read.
“Early this afternoon,” stated Releston, quietly, “one of my secretaries, Donald Lanson, went into my room to discover two men rifling the drawers in my filing cabinet. The thieves locked Lanson in a closet, and it was twenty minutes later that he managed to get free.
“None of these documents, however, were originals. They were merely duplicates. So, gentlemen, the theft, while indicating real villainy, was of no serious consequence.”
With that, the senator arose. It was plain that he intended to make no further pronouncement. The reporters helped themselves to copies of the statement from a ready stack on the desk. Then they filed from the office, Clyde and Garvey among them.
“What do you make of it?” queried Clyde, as they rode away in a taxi. “Sounds like a straight statement, doesn't it?”
“Releston always talks straight,” returned Garvey, absently. “I'm wondering though—just wondering about when it happened. It may have been earlier than Releston said.”
A pause; then Garvey added:
“Foster Crozan came in this morning. The senator probably met him. If crooks were watching, that's the time they would have picked to step into the place.”
“What about Crozan?” asked Clyde. “Where was he when we were there?”
“Somewhere in the apartment, probably. Releston didn't want him to be bothered with an interview.”
“You don't think this burglary was more serious than Releston indicated?”
“No. Chances are that the papers were duplicates, just as the senator said. The intent was bad; but the results nil.”
GARVEY dropped off before they reached the Wallingford Building; but Clyde kept on to his office. At his desk, The Shadow's agent found a pad of telegraph blanks and began to prepare a wire. That dispatch was to carry a secret to The Shadow, in New York.
In response to this wire, The Shadow would come to Washington. His presence here was needed; a rift had come into the serenity of the scene. Completing the message, with its hidden plea for his chief to visit the Capitol. Clyde reached for the telephone. As he did, the bell began to ring.
Impatient at the delaying call, Clyde snatched up the receiver, intending to be as abrupt as possible. He snapped his opening words into the mouthpiece:
“Clyde Burke speaking.”
A change came over Clyde's countenance as a voice responded. Strange, whispered tones, commanding words that held Clyde speechless. His telegram had been anticipated; the speaker on the line was The Shadow.
But Clyde's chief was not calling from New York; by The Shadow's own statement, Clyde understood that these instructions were being given from a local telephone in Washington.
Clyde hung up, baffled. The Shadow knew about the theft at Releston's. How had he learned of it? How had he arrived in Washington so soon?
Then truth dawned; and with it, Clyde gained full realization of how consequential the crime at Releston's might prove to be.
The summons that had brought The Shadow had been dispatched to him direct. Its sender, though not an agent of The Shadow, had reason to know the value of The Shadow's prowess. The man who had sent the important request was Senator Ross Releston himself!
CHAPTER III. THE SHADOW PREPARES.
HALF an hour after Clyde had received his call from The Shadow, a taxi driver pulled up in front of the Hotel Barlingham. The driver glanced askance into the rear of his vehicle, wondering whether or not he still had his passenger.
The driver grunted his relief as the rear door opened and a tall figure came into the light of the hotel front.
The first inkling of his presence in the cab had been when the driver had heard a voice order him to go to the Hotel Barlingham.
The tall stranger did not appear formidable when he entered the hotel lobby. He was dressed in a dark suit.
His face was of chiseled mold. Masklike features, dominated by a hawkish nose; thin, inflexible lips; eyes that
