He had to admit that Cowperwood had seriously compromised the city treasury and the Republican party, and incidentally Butler's own private interests.
Nevertheless, he liked Cowperwood. He was in no way prepared to desert him.
He was now going to see Mollenhauer and Simpson as much to save Cowperwood really as the party and his own affairs.
And yet a scandal.
He did not like that—resented it.
This young scalawag!
To think he should be so sly.
None the less he still liked him, even here and now, and was feeling that he ought to do something to help the young man, if anything could help him.
He might even leave his hundred-thousand-dollar loan with him until the last hour, as Cowperwood had requested, if the others were friendly.
"Well, father," said Owen, after a time, "I don't see why you need to worry any more than Mollenhauer or Simpson.
If you three want to help him out, you can; but for the life of me I don't see why you should.
I know this thing will have a bad effect on the election, if it comes out before then; but it could be hushed up until then, couldn't it?
Anyhow, your street-railway holdings are more important than this election, and if you can see your way clear to getting the street-railway lines in your hands you won't need to worry about any elections.
My advice to you is to call that one-hundred-thousand-dollar loan of yours in the morning, and meet the drop in your stocks that way.
It may make Cowperwood fail, but that won't hurt you any.
You can go into the market and buy his stocks. I wouldn't be surprised if he would run to you and ask you to take them.
You ought to get Mollenhauer and Simpson to scare Stener so that he won't loan Cowperwood any more money.
If you don't, Cowperwood will run there and get more.
Stener's in too far now.
If Cowperwood won't sell out, well and good; the chances are he will bust, anyhow, and then you can pick up as much on the market as any one else.
I think he'll sell.
You can't afford to worry about Stener's five hundred thousand dollars.
No one told him to loan it.
Let him look out for himself.
It may hurt the party, but you can look after that later.
You and Mollenhauer can fix the newspapers so they won't talk about it till after election."
"Aisy! Aisy!" was all the old contractor would say. He was thinking hard.
Chapter XXV
The residence of Henry A. Mollenhauer was, at that time, in a section of the city which was almost as new as that in which Butler was living. It was on South Broad Street, near a handsome library building which had been recently erected.
It was a spacious house of the type usually affected by men of new wealth in those days—a structure four stories in height of yellow brick and white stone built after no school which one could readily identify, but not unattractive in its architectural composition.
A broad flight of steps leading to a wide veranda gave into a decidedly ornate door, which was set on either side by narrow windows and ornamented to the right and left with pale-blue jardinieres of considerable charm of outline.
The interior, divided into twenty rooms, was paneled and parqueted in the most expensive manner for homes of that day.
There was a great reception-hall, a large parlor or drawing-room, a dining-room at least thirty feet square paneled in oak; and on the second floor were a music-room devoted to the talents of Mollenhauer's three ambitious daughters, a library and private office for himself, a boudoir and bath for his wife, and a conservatory.
Mollenhauer was, and felt himself to be, a very important man.
His financial and political judgment was exceedingly keen.
Although he was a German, or rather an American of German parentage, he was a man of a rather impressive American presence.
He was tall and heavy and shrewd and cold.
His large chest and wide shoulders supported a head of distinguished proportions, both round and long when seen from different angles.
The frontal bone descended in a protruding curve over the nose, and projected solemnly over the eyes, which burned with a shrewd, inquiring gaze.
And the nose and mouth and chin below, as well as his smooth, hard cheeks, confirmed the impression that he knew very well what he wished in this world, and was very able without regard to let or hindrance to get it. It was a big face, impressive, well modeled.
He was an excellent friend of Edward Malia Butler's, as such friendships go, and his regard for Mark Simpson was as sincere as that of one tiger for another.
He respected ability; he was willing to play fair when fair was the game.
When it was not, the reach of his cunning was not easily measured.
When Edward Butler and his son arrived on this Sunday evening, this distinguished representative of one-third of the city's interests was not expecting them. He was in his library reading and listening to one of his daughters playing the piano.
His wife and his other two daughters had gone to church.
He was of a domestic turn of mind.
Still, Sunday evening being an excellent one for conference purposes generally in the world of politics, he was not without the thought that some one or other of his distinguished confreres might call, and when the combination footman and butler announced the presence of Butler and his son, he was well pleased.
"So there you are," he remarked to Butler, genially, extending his hand.
"I'm certainly glad to see you.
And Owen!