Mollenhauer, sly and secretive himself, was apparently not at all moved by this unexpected development. At the same time, never having thought of Stener as having any particular executive or financial ability, he was a little stirred and curious. So his treasurer was using money without his knowing it, and now stood in danger of being prosecuted! Cowperwood he knew of only indirectly, as one who had been engaged to handle city loan. He had profited by his manipulation of city loan. Evidently the banker had made a fool of Stener, and had used the money for street-railway shares! He and Stener must have quite some private holdings then. That did interest Mollenhauer greatly.
“Five hundred thousand dollars!” he repeated, when Butler had finished. “That is quite a little money. If merely supporting the market would save Cowperwood we might do that, although if it’s a severe panic I do not see how anything we can do will be of very much assistance to him. If he’s in a very tight place and a severe slump is coming, it will take a great deal more than our merely supporting the market to save him. I’ve been through that before. You don’t know what his liabilities are?”
“I do not,” said Butler.
“He didn’t ask for money, you say?”
“He wants me to l’ave a hundred thousand he has of mine until he sees whether he can get through or not.”
“Stener is really out of town, I suppose?” Mollenhauer was innately suspicious.
“So Cowperwood says. We can send and find out.”
Mollenhauer was thinking of the various aspects of the case. Supporting the market would be all very well if that would save Cowperwood, and the Republican party and his treasurer. At the same time Stener could then be compelled to restore the five hundred thousand dollars to the city treasury, and release his holdings to someone—preferably to him—Mollenhauer. But here was Butler also to be considered in this matter. What might he not want? He consulted with Butler and learned that Cowperwood had agreed to return the five hundred thousand in case he could get it together. The various streetcar holdings were not asked after. But what assurance had anyone that Cowperwood could be so saved? And could, or would get the money together? And if he were saved would he give the money back to Stener? If he required actual money, who would loan it to him in a time like this—in case a sharp panic was imminent? What security could he give? On the other hand, under pressure from the right parties he might be made to surrender all his street-railway holdings for a song—his and Stener’s. If he (Mollenhauer) could get them he would not particularly care whether the election was lost this fall or not, although he felt satisfied, as had Owen, that it would not be lost. It could be bought, as usual. The defalcation—if Cowperwood’s failure made Stener’s loan into one—could be concealed long enough, Mollenhauer thought, to win. Personally as it came to him now he would prefer to frighten Stener into refusing Cowperwood additional aid, and then raid the latter’s street-railway stock in combination with everybody else’s, for that matter—Simpson’s and Butler’s included. One of the big sources of future wealth in Philadelphia lay in these lines. For the present, however, he had to pretend an interest in saving the party at the polls.
“I can’t speak for the Senator, that’s sure,” pursued Mollenhauer, reflectively. “I don’t know what he may think. As for myself, I am perfectly willing to do what I can to keep up the price of stocks, if that will do any good. I would do so naturally in order to protect my loans. The thing that we ought to be thinking about, in my judgment, is how to prevent exposure, in case Mr. Cowperwood does fail, until after election. We have no assurance, of course, that however much we support the market we will be able to sustain it.”
“We have not,” replied Butler, solemnly.
Owen thought he could see Cowperwood’s approaching doom quite plainly. At that moment the doorbell rang. A maid, in the absence of the footman, brought in the name of Senator Simpson.
“Just the man,” said Mollenhauer. “Show him up. You can see what he thinks.”
“Perhaps I had better leave you alone now,” suggested Owen to his father. “Perhaps I can find Miss Caroline, and she will sing for me. I’ll wait for you, father,” he added.
Mollenhauer cast him an ingratiating smile, and as he stepped out Senator Simpson walked in.
A more interesting type of his kind than Senator Mark Simpson never flourished in the State of Pennsylvania, which has been productive of interesting types. Contrasted with either of the two men who now greeted him warmly and shook his hand, he was physically unimpressive. He was small—five feet nine inches, to Mollenhauer’s six feet and Butler’s five feet eleven inches and a half, and then his face was smooth, with a receding jaw. In the other two this feature was prominent. Nor were his eyes as frank as those of Butler, nor as defiant as those of Mollenhauer; but for subtlety they were unmatched by either—deep, strange, receding, cavernous eyes which contemplated you as might those of a cat looking out of a dark hole, and suggesting all the artfulness that has ever distinguished the feline family. He had a strange mop of black hair sweeping down over a fine, low, white forehead, and a skin as pale and bluish as poor health might make it; but there was, nevertheless, resident here a strange, resistant, capable force that ruled men—the subtlety
