where your daughter is, and I may not. I may wish to 
tell you, and I may not. She may not wish me to. But 
unless you wish to talk with me in a civil way there is no 
need of our going on any further. You are privileged to 
do what you like. Won't you come up-stairs to my 
room? We can talk more comfortably there." 
Butler looked at his former prot6ge in utter astonish- 
ment. He had never before in all his experience come 
up against a more ruthless type—suave, bland, forceful, 
unterrified. This man had certainly come to him as a 
sheep, and had turned out to be a ravening wolf. His 
incarceration had not put him in the least awe. 
"I'll not come up to your room," Butler said, " and ye'll 
not get out of Philadelphia with her if that's what ye're 
plannin'. I can see to that. Ye think ye have the upper 
hand of me, I see, and ye're anxious to take it. Well, 
ye've not. It wasn't enough that ye come to me as a 
beggar, cravin' the help of me, and that I took ye in and 
helped ye all I could—ye had to steal my daughter from 
me in the bargain. If it wasn't for the girl's mother and 
her sister and her brothers—dacenter men than ever ye'll 
know how to be—I'd brain ye where ye stand. Takin' a 
young, innocent girl and makin' an evil woman out of 
her, and ye a married man! It's a God's blessin' for ye 
that it's me, and not one of me sons, that's here talkin' 
to ye, or ye wouldn't be alive to say what ye'd do." 
The old man was grim but impotent in his rage. 
" I'm sorry, Mr. Butler," replied Cowperwood, quietly. 
"I'm willing to explain, but you won't let me. I'm not 
planning to run away with your daughter, nor to leave 
Philadelphia. You ought to know me well enough to 
know that I'm not contemplating anything of that kind; 
my interests are too large. You and I are practical men. 
We ought to be able to talk this matter over together and 
reach an understanding. I thought once of coming to 
you and explaining this; but I was quite sure you wouldn't 
listen to me. Now that you are here I would like to talk