“Good God, how you talk!” exploded Cowperwood, angrily, looking at him with ill-concealed contempt.  “Go ahead!  See Mollenhauer!  Let him tell you how to cut your own throat for his benefit.  It won’t be right to loan me three hundred thousand dollars more, but it will be right to let the five hundred thousand dollars you have loaned stand unprotected and lose it.  That’s right, isn’t it?  That’s just what you propose to do—­lose it, and everything else besides.  I want to tell you what it is, George—­you’ve lost your mind.  You’ve let a single message from Mollenhauer frighten you to death, and because of that you’re going to risk your fortune, your reputation, your standing—­everything.  Do you really realize what this means if I fail?  You will be a convict, I tell you, George.  You will go to prison.  This fellow Mollenhauer, who is so quick to tell you what not to do now, will be the last man to turn a hand for you once you’re down.  Why, look at me—­I’ve helped you, haven’t I?  Haven’t I handled your affairs satisfactorily for you up to now?  What in Heaven’s name has got into you?  What have you to be afraid of?”

Stener was just about to make another weak rejoinder when the door from the outer office opened, and Albert Stires, Stener’s chief clerk, entered.  Stener was too flustered to really pay any attention to Stires for the moment; but Cowperwood took matters in his own hands.

“What is it, Albert?” he asked, familiarly.

“Mr. Sengstack from Mr. Mollenhauer to see Mr. Stener.”

At the sound of this dreadful name Stener wilted like a leaf.  Cowperwood saw it.  He realized that his last hope of getting the three hundred thousand dollars was now probably gone.  Still he did not propose to give up as yet.

“Well, George,” he said, after Albert had gone out with instructions that Stener would see Sengstack in a moment.  “I see how it is.  This man has got you mesmerized.  You can’t act for yourself now—­you’re too frightened.  I’ll let it rest for the present; I’ll come back.  But for Heaven’s sake pull yourself together.  Think what it means.  I’m telling you exactly what’s going to happen if you don’t.  You’ll be independently rich if you do.  You’ll be a convict if you don’t.”

And deciding he would make one more effort in the street before seeing Butler again, he walked out briskly, jumped into his light spring runabout waiting outside—­a handsome little yellow-glazed vehicle, with a yellow leather cushion seat, drawn by a young, high-stepping bay mare—­and sent her scudding from door to door, throwing down the lines indifferently and bounding up the steps of banks and into office doors.