Butler went to the
window and stared out. He was angry, bitter, brutal in his vein.
"The dirty dog!" he suddenly exclaimed to himself, in a low voice. "I'll
take every dollar he's got before I'm through with him. I'll send him to
jail, I will. I'll break him, I will. Wait!"
He clinched his big fists and his teeth.
"I'll fix him. I'll show him. The dog! The damned scoundrel!"
Never in his life before had he been so bitter, so cruel, so relentless
in his mood.
He walked his office floor thinking what he could do. Question
Aileen--that was what he would do. If her face, or her lips, told him
that his suspicion was true, he would deal with Cowperwood later. This
city treasurer business, now. It was not a crime in so far as Cowperwood
was concerned; but it might be made to be.
So now, telling the clerk to say to Owen that he had gone down the
street for a few moments, he boarded a street-car and rode out to his
home, where he found his elder daughter just getting ready to go out.
She wore a purple-velvet street dress edged with narrow, flat gilt
braid, and a striking gold-and-purple turban. She had on dainty new
boots of bronze kid and long gloves of lavender suede.
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