“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.”