hough, that Cowperwood had tempted her to do this. He had too much at
stake; it would involve his own and Butler's families. The papers would
be certain to get it quickly. He got up, crumpling the paper in his
hand, and turned about at a noise. His wife was coming in. He pulled
himself together and shoved the letter in his pocket.

"Aileen's not in her room," she said, curiously. "She didn't say
anything to you about going out, did she?"

"No," he replied, truthfully, wondering how soon he should have to tell
his wife.

"That's odd," observed Mrs. Butler, doubtfully. "She must have gone out
after somethin'. It's a wonder she wouldn't tell somebody."

Butler gave no sign. He dared not. "She'll be back," he said, more in
order to gain time than anything else. He was sorry to have to pretend.
Mrs. Butler went out, and he closed the door. Then he took out
the letter and read it again. The girl was crazy. She was doing an
absolutely wild, inhuman, senseless thing. Where could she go, except
to Cowperwood? She was on the verge of a public scandal, and this would
produce it. There was just one thing to do as far as he could see.
Cowperwood, if he were still in Philadelphia, would know. He would go to
him--threaten, cajole, actually destroy him, if necessary. Aileen must
come back. She need not go to Europe, perhaps, but she must come back
and behave herself at least until Cowperwood could legitimately marry
her. That was all he could expect now. She would have to wait, and some
day perhaps he could bring himself to accept her wretched proposition.
Horrible thought! It would kill her mother, disgrace her sister. He got
up, took down his hat, put on his overcoat, and started out.

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 try