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Arriving at the Cowperwood home he was shown into the reception-room. Cowperwood at the
time was in his den looking over some private papers. When the name of Butler was announced
he immediately went down-stairs. It was characteristic of the man that the announcement of
Butler's presence created no stir in him whatsoever. So Butler had come. That meant, of
course, that Aileen had gone. Now for a battle, not of words, but of weights of personalities. He
felt himself to be intellectually, socially, and in every other way the more powerful man of the
two. That spiritual content of him which we call life hardened to the texture of steel. He recalled
that although he had told his wife and his father that the politicians, of whom Butler was one,
were trying to make a scapegoat of him, Butler, nevertheless, was not considered to be wholly
alienated as a friend, and civility must prevail. He would like very much to placate him if he
could, to talk out the hard facts of life in a quiet and friendly way. But this matter of Aileen had to
be adjusted now once and for all. And with that thought in his mind he walked quickly into
Butler's presence.
The old man, when he learned that Cowperwood was in and would see him, determined to
make his contact with the financier as short and effective as possible. He moved the least bit
when he heard Cowperwood's step, as light and springy as ever.
"Good evening, Mr. Butler," said Cowperwood, cheerfully, when he saw him, extending his
hand. "What can I do for you?"
"Ye can take that away from in front of me, for one thing," said Butler, grimly referring to his
hand. "I have no need of it. It's my daughter I've come to talk to ye about, and I want plain
answers. Where is she?"
"You mean Aileen?" said Cowperwood, looking at him with steady, curious, unrevealing eyes,
and merely interpolating this to obtain a moment for reflection. "What can I tell you about her?"
"Ye can tell me where she is, that I know. And ye can make her come back to her home, where
she belongs. It was bad fortune that ever brought ye across my doorstep; but I'll not bandy
words with ye here. Ye'll tell me where my daughter is, and ye'll leave her alone from now, or
I'll--" The old man's fists closed like a vise, and his chest heaved with suppressed rage. "Ye'll
not be drivin' me too far, man, if ye're wise," he added, after a time, recovering his equanimity in