At one-thirty he went to Rector’s for lunch, and when he returned a messenger was waiting for him.  He looked at the little chap with a feeling of doubt.

“I’m to bring an answer,” said the boy.

Hurstwood recognized his wife’s writing.  He tore it open and read without a show of feeling.  It began in the most formal manner and was sharply and coldly worded throughout.

“I want you to send the money I asked for at once.  I need it to carry out my plans.  You can stay away if you want to.  It doesn’t matter in the least.  But I must have some money.  So don’t delay, but send it by the boy.”

When he had finished it, he stood holding it in his hands.  The audacity of the thing took his breath.  It roused his ire also-the deepest element of revolt in him.  His first impulse was to write but four words in reply—­“Go to the devil!”—­but he compromised by telling the boy that there would be no reply.  Then he sat down in his chair and gazed without seeing, contemplating the result of his work.  What would she do about that?  The confounded wretch!  Was she going to try to bulldoze him into submission?  He would go up there and have it out with her, that’s what he would do.  She was carrying things with too high a hand.  These were his first thoughts.

Later, however, his old discretion asserted itself.  Something had to be done.  A climax was near and she would not sit idle.  He knew her well enough to know that when she had decided upon a plan she would follow it up.  Possibly matters would go into a lawyer’s hands at once.

“Damn her!” he said softly, with his teeth firmly set, “I’ll make it hot for her if she causes me trouble.  I’ll make her change her tone if I have to use force to do it!”

He arose from his chair and went and looked out into the street.  The long drizzle had begun.  Pedestrians had turned up collars, and trousers at the bottom.  Hands were hidden in the pockets of the umbrella less; umbrellas were up.  The street looked like a sea of round black cloth roofs, twisting, bobbing, moving.  Trucks and vans were rattling in a noisy line and everywhere men were shielding themselves as best they could.  He scarcely noticed the picture.  He was forever confronting his wife, demanding of her to change her attitude toward him before he worked her bodily harm.

At four o’clock another note came, which simply said that if the money was not forthcoming that evening the matter would be laid before Fitzgerald and Moy on the morrow, and other steps would be taken to get it.

Hurstwood almost exclaimed out loud at the insistency of this thing.  Yes, he would send her the money.  He’d take it to her-he would go up there and have a talk with her, and that at once.

He put on his hat and looked around for his umbrella.  He would have some arrangement of this thing.

He called a cab and was driven through the dreary rain to the North Side.  On the way his temper cooled as he thought of the details of the case.  What did she know?  What had she done?  Maybe she’d got hold of Carrie, who knows—­or—­or Drouet.  Perhaps she really had evidence, and was prepared to fell him as a man does another from secret ambush.  She was shrewd.  Why should she taunt him this way unless she had good grounds?