“I came to see you about that loan of yours, Mr. Butler,” he observed, briskly, with an old-time, jaunty air.  You could not have told from his manner or his face that he had observed anything out of the ordinary.

Butler, who was alone in the room—­Owen having gone into an adjoining room—­merely stared at him from under his shaggy brows.

“I’ll have to have that money,” he said, brusquely, darkly.

An old-time Irish rage suddenly welled up in his bosom as he contemplated this jaunty, sophisticated undoer of his daughter’s virtue.  He fairly glared at him as he thought of him and her.

“I judged from the way things were going this morning that you might want it,” Cowperwood replied, quietly, without sign of tremor.  “The bottom’s out, I see.”

“The bottom’s out, and it’ll not be put back soon, I’m thinkin’.  I’ll have to have what’s belongin’ to me to-day.  I haven’t any time to spare.”

“Very well,” replied Cowperwood, who saw clearly how treacherous the situation was.  The old man was in a dour mood.  His presence was an irritation to him, for some reason—­a deadly provocation.  Cowperwood felt clearly that it must be Aileen, that he must know or suspect something.

He must pretend business hurry and end this.  “I’m sorry.  I thought I might get an extension; but that’s all right.  I can get the money, though.  I’ll send it right over.”

He turned and walked quickly to the door.

Butler got up.  He had thought to manage this differently.

He had thought to denounce or even assault this man.  He was about to make some insinuating remark which would compel an answer, some direct charge; but Cowperwood was out and away as jaunty as ever.

The old man was flustered, enraged, disappointed.  He opened the small office door which led into the adjoining room, and called, “Owen!”

“Yes, father.”

“Send over to Cowperwood’s office and get that money.”

“You decided to call it, eh?”

“I have.”

Owen was puzzled by the old man’s angry mood.  He wondered what it all meant, but thought he and Cowperwood might have had a few words.  He went out to his desk to write a note and call a clerk.  Butler went to the window and stared out.  He was angry, bitter, brutal in his vein.

“The dirty dog!” he suddenly exclaimed to himself, in a low voice.  “I’ll take every dollar he’s got before I’m through with him.  I’ll send him to jail, I will.  I’ll break him, I will.  Wait!”

He clinched his big fists and his teeth.

“I’ll fix him.  I’ll show him.  The dog!  The damned scoundrel!”

Never in his life before had he been so bitter, so cruel, so relentless in his mood.

He walked his office floor thinking what he could do.  Question Aileen—­that was what he would do.  If her face, or her lips, told him that his suspicion was true, he would deal with Cowperwood later.  This city treasurer business, now.  It was not a crime in so far as Cowperwood was concerned; but it might be made to be.