"I shall telegraph him at once," he warned her.
"Certainly," said Pauline. "He might blame you severely for failing to do that."
He paused in his pacing up and down the room. He flung his arms toward her, his eyes blazing.
"I WILL have it!" he exclaimed. "Do you hear me, I WILL! I'll bring men from down-town and have the safe blown open. The money is not yours—it is——"
She advanced to the bell.
"Another word, Mr. Culver, and I'll have the servants show you the door. Yours is a strange courage—to dare to speak thus to me when your head should be hanging in shame for trying to make such base use of me and my courtesy and friendliness."
His arms dropped, and he lowered his head.
"I beg your pardon," he said humbly. "I'm not myself. I think I'm going insane. PITY me!"
Pauline looked at him sadly. "I wish I had the right to. But—I SYMPATHIZE, and I'm sorry—so sorry—to have to do this." A pause, then—"Good afternoon, Mr. Culver." And she moved toward the door. At the threshold she turned. "I must say one thing further—THE CONVENTION MUST NOT BE PUT OFF. If it is adjourned to-morrow without making nominations, I shall understand that you are getting the money elsewhere. And—I shall be compelled to put such facts as I know in the possession of—of those you came to injure." And she was gone.
Culver went to Merriweather's office and sent out for him and Larkin. When they arrived he shut the doors and told them what had happened—and in his manner there was not left a trace of the New Yorker and ambassador condescending to westerners and underlings. Larkin cursed; Merriweather gave no outward sign. Presently Merriweather said: "Larkin, you must adjourn the convention over to-morrow. Culver can go to Chicago and get back with the money by to-morrow night."