THE FINANCIER 
wide, white stone steps leading up to the door. The 
window arches, framed in white, had U-shaped keystones. 
He noticed the curtains of lace and a glimpse of red plush 
through the windows, which gleamed warm against the 
cold and snow outside. A trim Irish maid came to the 
door. 
"Is Mr. Butler here?" 
"I'm not sure, sir. I'll find out. He may have gone 
out. Who shall I say?" 
Mr. Cowperwood had his card ready, and gave it to 
her. 
She invited him in and disappeared. In a little while 
he was asked to come up-stairs, where he found Mr. 
Butler in a somewhat commercial-looking front room. It 
had a desk, an office chair, some leather furnishings, and 
a book-case, but no completeness or symmetry as either 
an office or a home room. There were several pictures 
on the wall—an impossible oil-painting for one thing, 
dark and gloomy; a canal and barge scene in pink and 
nile green for another; some daguerreotypes of relatives 
and friends which were not half had. Cowperwood noticed 
one of two girls, one with reddish-gold hair, another with 
what appeared to be silky brown. The beautiful silver 
effect of the daguerreotype had been tinted. They were 
pretty girls, healthy, smiling, Celtic, their young heads 
close together, their eyes looking straight out at you. 
He admired them casually, and fancied they must be 
Butler's daughters. 
" Mr. Cowperwood?" spoke Mr. Butler, turning his 
round, solid face on him and uttering the name fully 
with a peculiar accent on the vowels (he was a slow- 
moving man, solemn and deliberate). Cowperwood 
noticed that his body was hale and strong like seasoned 
hickory, tanned by wind and rain. The flesh of his 
cheeks was pulled taut, and there was nothing either soft 
or flabby about him. 
" I'm that man."