"Where is the money coming from?"
Old Miller's question was indeed a problem.
Even if not many people were involved, the expenses required were not small.
But the key issue was that currently, too few people were donating funds to the Democratic Party.
Senator Samuel furrowed his brows tightly, tapping the table impatiently.
"Miller, you are the treasurer. Fundraising is your job. The Democratic Party has been established for so many years, are you telling me we can't even scrape together enough campaign funds to go through the motions now?"
Old Miller gave a bitter smile and pushed the leather ledger in his hand directly to the center of the table.
"Senator Samuel, you can see for yourself. Relying solely on the party dues paid by those congressmen in Congress isn't even enough to buy three days of front-page ads in New York newspapers. Don't you know who donated the vast majority of our previous campaign funds?"
Old Miller sighed and began to tally up these bad debts.
"In the past, our biggest donors were the large plantation owners in the South, as well as the hundreds of independent factory owners in various states. To resist the industrial exploitation and high tariffs from the North, they were willing to shell out plenty of money for the Democratic Party."
"But what about now?"
Old Miller's tone was filled with sorrow.
"The Civil War bankrupted the old aristocracy of the South, and what's even worse is these past few years."
Old Miller looked at Sean, who had been silent all along.
"In these past few years, that Argyle, with his capital and industrial assembly lines, has swept across the land of America like a swarm of locusts. Those plantations in the South are either bankrupt now or forced to sell cotton at low prices to Argyle' textile mills. The small steel mills and small gun workshops in the Midwest have all been squeezed so hard by Lex Steel and Vanguard Military Industry that they can't even pay wages."
"So, gentlemen." Old Miller spread his hands.
"The biggest power in the South no longer belongs to those old aristocrats. Now, the biggest donor in the South is the ranches, shops, and railway companies established by the Argyle Family in various states! Those who used to pay us are almost begging for food themselves; what can they use to donate to us?"
The private box fell into a deathly silence once again.
Reality is just that cruel.
Political struggle, in the final analysis, is burning money.
Without money, no matter how handsome Carter is or how good his eloquence is, he cannot walk out of Washington D.C. to deliver speeches.
Carter pursed his lips and hesitantly put forward a seemingly absurd idea.
"Um... Mr. Chairman, Mr. Miller. Since the Argyle Family is the wealthiest in the South right now, then... could we approach Argyle privately?"
Before Carter could finish his sentence, Samuel jumped up like a cat whose tail had been stepped on.
"Oh shit... Carter! Have you lost your mind? Go ask Argyle for money?"
Samuel pointed at Carter's nose and cursed loudly.
"Don't you know what kind of person that bastard is? He is a die-hard supporter of the Republican Party! From Lincoln fighting the Civil War to the current Grant, this man's shadow is behind them all!
That Patriot Investment Company under his name donates money through various channels! You go to him and say, 'Hey, Argyle, give us some money for the election.' He will have security throw you directly into the East River!"
Carter was embarrassed by the scolding and bit the bullet to retort.
"Mr. Samuel, don't be so anxious. This is a very normal thing in New York. Those big capitalists usually bet on both sides to mitigate risks.
You have to know that Grant is a drunkard.
A while ago, the United Credit Bank incident happened; Argyle cannot fully trust him. If we promise to provide more benefits after taking office, why is it impossible for him to donate some money to us?"
"More benefits?" Samuel laughed out of extreme anger.
"What else can you give him? The entire America is almost becoming his private estate. What can you use to bribe someone who is almost wealthier than the country itself?"
"Alright, stop arguing!"
chairman Hendricks slammed the table heavily, stopping this meaningless quarrel.
"Although Carter's idea is naive, it is not entirely unreasonable. However, going to find Argyle is indeed impossible. Currently, his interests are too deeply tied to Grant; we must find other ways out."
Hendricks pondered for a moment.
"The South has been picked clean by Argyle. But in the North and the East Coast, there are still some families and enterprises that are extremely dissatisfied with Argyle."
Hendricks looked at the treasurer, Old Miller.
"You go and compile a list. Contact those old-school bankers in Boston, contact those bosses. If that doesn't work, go pull sponsorship from those small factory owners who are still holding on."
Hendricks gave the bottom line for fundraising.
"We can make private promises to them. As long as the Democratic Party takes office in the future, or we win the majority of seats in the state legislatures, we will definitely introduce anti-monopoly legislation to restrict the expansion of large capital. The enemy of an enemy is a friend; I believe there will always be someone willing to pay for a glimmer of hope."
Just as the people in the private box started arguing endlessly over this fundraising list, and even started bickering because of their respective constituency interests.
"Knock, knock, knock~ Creak."
After the thick mahogany door of the private box was knocked on, it was pushed open very calmly from the outside.
All the Democratic bigwigs present stopped arguing.
Samuel turned his head angrily, preparing to rebuke this guy who didn't know what was good for him and barged in.
"This is a private meeting. Who are you? Where is security!" Samuel shouted angrily.
The person who walked in was a man wearing an extremely exquisite dark tailcoat, holding a silver-handled cane in his hand.
He was not old, but every gesture exuded an aristocratic aura.
He ignored Samuel's roar.
He walked straight to the round table, his gaze sweeping over Hendricks, Carter, and Old Miller present with extreme indifference.
The corners of his mouth curled into an extremely playful smile.
"Gentlemen, I apologize for interrupting your gathering."
The man tapped the silver-handled cane in his hand lightly on the floor, producing a crisp echo.
"I was listening outside the door just a moment ago. It seems that the once-great Democratic Party is now worrying about a mere pittance of campaign funds?"
chairman Hendricks narrowed his eyes; he could feel the aura of a capitalist on this young man.
He reached out to stop Samuel, who was about to lash out.
"You must not be here to watch a joke. May I ask who you represent?" Hendricks asked in a deep voice.
The man bowed slightly and performed an impeccable bow.
But the words he spoke sent ripples through the private box.
"Gentlemen, I come from New York."
The several Democratic Party bigwigs in the private box narrowed their eyes the moment they heard the word "New York."
Senator Samuel Taft's mouth, which had been about to spew insults, froze half-open, his right hand pressed against the tabletop, the veins on the back of his hand slightly bulging.
Carter Black instinctively glanced at chairman Hendricks at the head of the table; their eyes met in mid-air, both seeing the surprise in the other's gaze.
New York.
On the political map of America in 1871, this place name was synonymous in recent years with that family entrenched along the East River, weaving a noose of money and steel.
"New York?"
chairman Hendricks slowly exhaled a puff of white smoke and rested his cigar on the edge of the crystal ashtray.
His old eyes, seasoned by decades of political maneuvering, narrowed slightly as he stared fixedly at this sudden, uninvited guest.
"Your tone doesn't sound like an ordinary Wall Street lobbyist. Listen, nobody in Washington likes playing hide-and-seek. Who exactly do you represent coming from New York? Is it that Mr. Argyle on the top floor of the Empire Bank Building?"
The man in the tailcoat standing before the round table smiled slightly.
The man was named David Burke. He did not answer Hendricks' question directly but instead gently transferred his silver-handled cane to his left hand and pointed his right hand toward the dark street outside the window.
"Mr. Chairman, that is truly an interesting question."
"In today's America, besides that leather chair in the Argyle Empire Bank building, is there anyone else who can truly represent New York? Or to put it another way, besides my boss, who else could casually produce the cold, hard cash to let you participate in this farcical election game?"
This statement did not explicitly admit it, but that rhetorical question, arrogant to its very core, was more convincing than any direct admission.
This was the typical style of the Argyle Family: crushing you with dollars until you couldn't breathe.
Samuel Taft leaned heavily back into his chair, letting out an incredulous gasp.
"The hell... is it really him?"
Samuel looked at Burke, the muscles in his face twitching slightly.
"Something's not right. Who in all of America doesn't know that Argyle is a die-hard supporter of the Republican Party? From Lincoln fighting the Civil War back then to Grant sitting in The White House now, the Argyle Family's Patriot Investment Company has practically covered half of the Republican Party's campaign funds. Buddy, you're here now telling us that the guy who wants to treat the entire United States like his private estate is preparing to send money to us, the Democratic Party? Wow~ this trick is just too bizarre."
"Senator Samuel, it seems your understanding of business is still stuck in the cotton fields of the South."
Burke retorted unceremoniously, then pulled out an empty chair, sat down comfortably, and crossed his hands over the silver head of his cane.
"As a qualified businessman, one never bets all their chips on a single target. President Grant is indeed a brave general, but a drunkard who likes to drink whiskey like water and is always stuffing his cabinet full of relatives will occasionally trip over his own cloak."
"As for the matter with the Union Credit Bank in Philadelphia a while back, I assume you have all read about it in the newspapers.
President Grant let those European capitals enter the market, and that made my boss very unhappy. That's called crossing the line, buddy. In America, no one can steal meat from the big boss's plate, not even the President."
Carter Black's eyes lit up suddenly upon hearing this.
He then turned his head to look at Hendricks.
"Mr. Chairman, that makes sense!"
Carter's speaking pace became somewhat hurried.
"It's common for big capitalists to hedge their bets. Although Argyle has his dozens of newspapers singing praises for Grant every day on the surface, that's just to maintain his dignity as a great contributor to the Republican Party. But privately, he needs a balance, a role he can replace at any time if the Republican Party doesn't listen. The Democratic Party is the one he has his eye on now."
The old financial committee member, Miller, pushed up his glasses, his gaze sweeping across Burke's calm face before finally landing on the unopened kraft paper envelope on the table.
"Mr. Burke."
Miller's voice was somewhat raspy.
"You've spoken at length about theory, but what we care about most right now is something tangible. A bad check won't even buy a glass of cheap Bourbon in Washington."
Burke smiled faintly.
He extended a white-gloved finger and gently pushed the kraft paper envelope to the very center of the table.
"Mr. Miller, that's the spirit. Businessmen never do business with their mouths."
Burke motioned for Miller to open the envelope.
Miller took the envelope with trembling hands, tore open the wax seal, and pulled out a slip of paper that smelled of fresh ink. It was a cashier's check issued by the headquarters of the Imperial Bank in New York, stamped with a gold seal for security.
Miller's gaze landed on the amount column.
"My God..."
Miller rubbed his eyes, barely able to believe his own presbyopic vision.
"One... one million dollars in a cashier's check. No intermediary acceptance needed; it can be withdrawn as cash at any bank in Washington."
The private box fell into dead silence again, with only the occasional crackle of pine wood in the fireplace.
One million dollars.
In America in 1871, this was a massive sum that could buy several railway lines and equip two infantry divisions.
For the Democratic Party, which couldn't even afford a newspaper front page at the moment, this was simply a miracle from heaven.
chairman Hendricks looked at the check, his eyes deep and thoughtful.
He did not show the wild joy that Samuel had; as the party leader, he had to think further ahead.
"Mr. Burke."
Hendricks looked at the young man across from him.
"To what extent does Mr. Argyle want us to perform in this midterm election? If he expects us to completely abandon the impeachment of the Republican Party's high tariff policy in exchange for this one million dollars, or to cooperate with his railway land-grabbing in the South, then this money will be too hot for us to hold."
Burke stood up and placed his bowler hat back on his head.
"Mr. Chairman, you are overthinking it. My boss never gives specific political orders to others; that is work for low-level compradors."
Burke walked to the door of the private box, turned back, and wore a playful smile on his lips.
"The boss's meaning is simple; he just doesn't want to see the Republican Party become an unmanageable unicorn in Congress. He needs the Democratic Party to look a little more decent in this election.
At the very least, don't let Grant's campaign tour turn into a one-man show for all of America. Spend this money on your stage; doesn't Mr. Carter want to make appearances in various states?
Go rent the best venues, hire the best military bands.
As for what the Argyle Family wants? Once you have secured enough seats in Congress, perhaps the boss will naturally send someone to talk to you about the new agenda.
Good luck, Gentlemen.
Please don't mess up this play."
Having said that, Burke pushed open the door and strode out of the private box.
His leather shoes made a dull thud on the thick carpet of the corridor, quickly disappearing into the shadows of the club.
Inside the private box, several people looked at the million-dollar cashier's check on the coffee table.
"chairman... do we take this money?"
Senator Samuel swallowed, his voice filled with irrepressible joy.
"Take it, why wouldn't we take it?"
Carter Black was almost reaching out to grab the check.
"This is a pure gold-backed check! With this one million, I could have dozens of independent newspapers in Boston and Chicago publish our Democratic Party's campaign manifesto simultaneously tomorrow! We could spread our reach to every major city in all of America!"
Old Miller turned his head to look at Hendricks, waiting for the old party leader's final verdict.
chairman Hendricks picked up the cut cigar again and struck a match to light it.
He pondered for a long time amidst the blue smoke.
He felt that Burke's appearance was a bit too logical, but that million-dollar check from the Imperial Bank was genuine, hard cash.
In the world of capital, the red seal on a cashier's check never lies.
"Take it, Miller. Lock it in our secret account."
Hendricks exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
"Whether Argyle wants to hedge his bets or he and Grant are failing to split the spoils, that's just dog-eat-dog within their Republican Party. The current Democratic Party, apart from a few coins in its pocket and some worthless scraps of paper, has absolutely no value worth a billionaire's plotting.
Since someone is willing to pay to set the stage for us, we will make this show big.
Notify the committee representatives of every state.
Next Monday, convene an internal primary meeting in Baltimore. We must select our own candidate to go and take a proper tour around the carriage roads of all America against that drunkard Grant."
Pennsylvania, Erie.
The cold morning wind, carrying the dampness from Lake Ontario, whipped the flags on the train station platform, making them snap in the air.
"Ulysses! Ulysses! The Guardian of the Federal Government!"
Thousands of people crowded outside the police line, waving rough red and blue ribbons in their hands.
In this small industrial city, dock laborers and steel mill workers made up the vast majority. Dressed in coveralls stained with coal ash, they roared the name of the General who saved the Federal Government during the Civil War with almost hysterical voices.
On the specially modified carriage of the Presidential train, President Ulysses S. Grant had just finished his fifth speech on the platform.
After waving to the crowd below, he turned around and walked back into the carriage, looking slightly exhausted.
Inside the carriage, a windproof kerosene lamp was lit, and half a bottle of unfinished Kentucky Bourbon sat on the table.
Grant unbuttoned his overcoat and sank heavily into the comfortable leather chair.
He picked up the wine glass next to him and took a fierce gulp; the spicy alcohol drew a sigh of satisfaction from his throat.
"Damn it, the smell of coal smoke in these places is heavier than in Washington."
Grant rubbed his red, bulbous nose and complained to his Chief of Staff, Howard Marshall, who was sitting to the side.
"But the enthusiasm of those workers is quite something. Howard, how do our major newspapers write about this speech today?"
Howard Marshall took out several copies of the New York Tribune and the Chicago Herald, still smelling of fresh ink, from his briefcase and spread them out on the table.
"Just as you expected, Mr. President."
Marshall pointed at the huge front-page headlines.
"Victor Fowler (General Manager of the News Media Company) did a fantastic job. Dozens of newspapers wrote your declaration in Erie and Cleveland regarding the 'Public Servant Retirement Fund' as the 'Magna Carta of the New Era.' The newspapers even seriously interviewed a few old postmen; those touching tears are enough to make the underlying voters of the entire North cast all their votes for us."
Looking at the sketch of himself on the newspaper, drawn to look extremely resolute, Grant smiled with satisfaction.
"That's right. Although that kid Argyle is arrogant, the opinion machine in his hands is indeed the best in all of America. As long as this retirement fund bill passes in Congress and the Imperial Bank gets that endless stream of data custody fees, he makes his money, and I sit in my White House. That's called a win-win, Howard."
However, the expression on Howard Marshall's face was not as relaxed as the President's.
He glanced at the tightly closed wooden door of the carriage, then moved his chair forward and lowered his voice to an extremely low level.
"Mr. President. Our informant... that is, the undercover agents you previously planted on the periphery of the Democratic National Committee in Washington. They sent a top-secret message this morning."
Grant's hand holding the wine glass paused slightly; he lifted his eyelids to look at his confidant.
"What are those losers up to again? They barely have money to rent a venue; do they want to stage a sit-in strike in Congress?"
"No, they got money. A very large sum of money."
Marshall's expression was extremely grave.
"A full one million dollars, in pure gold cashier's checks."
"What?"
Grant smashed the whiskey glass in his hand heavily onto the table, splashing the liquor out and soaking the newspaper underneath.
"One million? In all of America right now, besides those old bloodsuckers, who can casually throw a million at those poor wretches in this election year? Who is it? Is it those people in Philadelphia and Boston?"
"Neither, Mr. President."
Marshall pursed his lips and said the name Grant least wanted to hear.
"I heard that the cashier's check was issued by the head office of the Argyle Empire Bank in New York. And... according to an aide to a high-ranking Democrat we bribed, a man dressed extremely elegantly, speaking with a New York accent, personally delivered the money into a private box in Washington. Before leaving, he left a message, the gist of which was, 'His boss does not want to see the Republican Party turn into a unicorn in Congress.'"
Marshall watched Grant's face turn increasingly livid, his voice getting lower and lower.
"All of that man's demeanor and words implied one thing. He went on behalf of the person on the top floor of the Empire Bank Building."
In an instant, the only sound left in the entire carriage was the clattering of train wheels hitting the tracks.
Grant's breathing became extremely heavy, and in his bloodshot eyes, the violence and suspicion peculiar to a soldier flickered.
He stared fixedly at the newspaper on the table; his own portrait on the newspaper now looked like a huge mockery.
"Argyle..."
Grant gritted his teeth, each word seeming to be squeezed out from between them.
"That damn, self-righteous Irish kid. He is stabbing me in the back!"
"Mr. President, do you think he really did it?"
Marshall asked tentatively.
"Could this be a conspiracy? Old Morgan in London just suffered a big loss in Philadelphia; they would most like to see you and the Argyle Family fall out."
"A conspiracy? In America, who can just casually go to the Imperial Bank and buy a one-million-dollar pure gold cashier's check to give to the Democratic Party? Only he himself!"
Grant punched the armrest of the leather chair and roared in anger.
"I get it now. He is planning for the future, man! A while ago, with the European United Credit Bank matter, and letting Old Morgan's people compete with him in steel and medicine. Maybe that arrogant kid felt a sense of crisis. Perhaps he realized that I, the President, am not cooperating with him, so now he's starting to play the trick of betting on both sides!"
Grant stood up and paced back and forth in the narrow carriage, swearing continuously.
"On one hand, he uses these dozens of newspapers to build momentum for me, letting me attract the Democratic Party's fire in the front. On the other hand, he secretly sends one million dollars to the Democratic Party, letting them stir up trouble and cause problems for me in Congress! Does he want to turn The White House and Congress into puppets in his hands? Or is it like the rumors say, he wants to be the invisible emperor of this country!"
"Mr. President, should we send a warning letter to New York? Or have the Department of the Treasury investigate this flow of funds from the Imperial Bank?"
A ruthless look flashed in Marshall's eyes.
"Idiot! We absolutely cannot fall out now!"
Grant roared as if venting his anger, sat back down in the chair, grabbed the whiskey bottle, and took a gulp directly.
The cold liquor made his feverish brain calm down a little.
"Listen, Howard. The election is at its most critical moment. All of America is watching my retirement fund bill. If I go to confront Argyle now, all he has to do is change the layout of those dozens of newspapers, and tomorrow morning's front page will become a scandal of 'Cabinet Corruption, Presidential Alcoholism'! By then, we won't even be able to pay for the coal for this train!"
Grant squeezed the empty wine glass until it creaked.
"Let him act, let him continue to secretly send money to the Democratic Party. We need his media machine to help us win this midterm election right now. Once I am successfully re-elected, once I sit firmly behind the desk in The White House for the next four years."
Grant turned his head to look at Marshall, his eyes revealing the cruelty and determination of a soldier-politician.
"At that time, I will make him understand that the supreme power of America is surnamed Grant, not Argyle! The reason this kid dares to be so arrogant is that there are currently no opponents in the domestic business world. After the election, I will use the Federal Government's executive orders to support true local forces. Find Vanderbilt of the New York Central Railroad, find the coal and steel tycoons of Pennsylvania, we will build a wall to slowly chop off the wings of the Argyle Family! As for now, keep this account firmly in the ledger for me!"
The top-floor office of the Empire Bank Building.
Morning mist completely shrouded the lower half of the entire building. Looking out from the floor-to-ceiling windows, the distant Hudson River was faintly visible amidst the grey fog, while the muffled whistle of a steam locomotive drifted up from the streets below.
Felix sat behind his expansive mahogany desk, holding a draft charter for the "Global Science Awards" that had just been drawn up by the Argyle Charitable Foundation, preparing to use his fountain pen to edit a few clauses.
"Boss."
The walnut doors of the office were gently pushed open, and Chief Secretary Edward Frost walked in quickly.
His expression was vastly different from his usual rigorous composure; his face was faintly pale, and his hand was tightly clutching a strip of paper tape just torn from the top-secret encrypted telegraph machine.
Felix set down his fountain pen and raised an eyebrow slightly.
He knew Frost too well; if something major hadn't happened, this excellent secretary would never have shown such an expression.
"What happened, Edward? Did Hayes have a slip-up with the price war in Philadelphia, or has Old Morgan broken through Catherine's raw material blockade in Boston?"
Felix leaned back in his leather chair, his tone remaining steady.
Frost walked to the desk and laid the decrypted telegram flat in front of Felix, his voice lowered to an extreme, even carrying an imperceptible sense of absurdity.
"Boss. It's not that; it's Washington. The mole that Flynn (former head of the Intelligence Department, later joined the government intelligence organization) planted on the President's special train just sent back a top-level urgent encrypted telegram."
Frost swallowed hard.
"President Ulysses S. Grant flew into a rage today in his train carriage in Erie. Our people heard his entire conversation with Chief of Staff Marshall. Grant is now firmly convinced that you... or rather, we, the Argyle Family, secretly provided a gratuitous cash sponsorship of a full one million dollars to the Democratic Party National Committee in Washington last night. It was done using pure gold cashier's checks issued by our Imperial Bank headquarters."
"Clatter."
The expensive gold pen in Felix's hand dropped directly onto the desk due to his sudden relaxation of fingers, rolling a few times on the dark mahogany surface and making a crisp sound.
Felix's eyes, usually so calm, tightened sharply in an instant.
He looked at Frost, not saying a word for a full five seconds.
"What did you say?"
Felix's voice dropped, the mildness that was usually faintly visible vanishing. The oppressive aura belonging to a monopoly giant instantly permeated the entire office.
"Me? Sending a million dollars to those Democratic paupers in Washington? Has my brain been fried by Alternating Current from the General Electric laboratory? Or have Flynn's men drunk too much bootleg liquor in Kentucky and started writing absurd fiction in their telegrams to me?"
"Boss, Flynn has double-checked it twice; the news is absolutely true."
Cold sweat seeped from Frost's forehead, although he also felt it was absurd.
"The Democratic Party in Washington did indeed receive one million dollars in pure gold cashier's checks last night. And I heard that the man who delivered the money acted extremely arrogantly at the scene and deliberately left behind many misleading clues. For example, he spoke with a pure New York accent, and before leaving, he asked chairman Hendricks in a rhetorical tone, 'In today's America, besides my boss, is there anyone else who can truly represent New York?' That kind of thing."
Frost pointed to the details on the telegram.
"Now, the entire Democratic leadership is convinced that this money is a chip you gave them to 'hedge your bets.' And President Ulysses S. Grant... seems to have believed it completely. He thinks you are using him to draw the Democratic Party's fire while secretly supporting the Democratic Party to check and balance The White House."
"I heard he has already made harsh threats in front of his staff; once his re-election is successful, he will use the entire administrative power of the Federal Government to support Vanderbilt and the coal and iron tycoons in the interior, forming an alliance to completely restrict our Argyle Family."
Felix listened quietly to Frost's report, his index finger tapping on the desk.
After the initial surprise, his brain, which had been performing high-intensity calculations for years, began to spin rapidly.
One million dollars, pure gold cashier's checks from the Imperial Bank. A pure New York accent, a perfectly arrogant rhetorical question. It was clear that this was a setup. A sophisticated, vicious, and classic setup.
"Ha..." A low, cold laugh suddenly emanated from Felix's throat, the sound appearing particularly chilling in the quiet office.
He leaned back into his leather chair, picked up the gold pen from the desk again, and spun it flexibly between his fingertips.
"Good tactic, truly a good tactic. That old fox in London; even on his deathbed, he can still pull some new tricks on me."
Frost was stunned for a moment, then immediately realized. "Boss, do you mean... Old Morgan?"
"Of course! The free market of America, Edward. Anyone who brings enough pounds and cash can walk right into the lobby of any of our Imperial Bank branches in Philadelphia or New York and purchase a million-dollar cashier's check. Would our tellers really ask about the customer's political leanings?"
Coldness flickered in Felix's eyes. Does Old Morgan really think I have no temper? He can't win in open commercial competition, so now he actually wants to pull something like this.
"Cavendish has been bled so much by us in steel and medicine, Old Morgan must be pressured by those old European aristocrats in London. He knows that in pure commerce and production capacity, he simply cannot beat me in America. So, he wants to throw all his remaining bets into political poisoning."
Felix hit the nail on the head, tearing open the core of this conspiracy. The key was that this matter truly struck a vital point. After all, compared to Lincoln, the relationship between Felix and President Ulysses S. Grant was not that good.
"He found a lobbyist who understands New York rules and delivered this genuine Imperial Bank cashier's check to the table of the Democratic Party. This money will not only allow the shriveled Democratic Party to come back to life instantly and frantically exhaust the public opinion energy of our News Media Company during this midterm election. More importantly, this is a chronic poison specifically fed to President Ulysses S. Grant."
Felix pulled a cigar from his case but did not light it, merely placing it under his nose to sniff.
"President Ulysses S. Grant is a soldier; the common failing of a soldier is being suspicious by nature and extremely arrogant. Old Morgan knows that President Ulysses S. Grant and I had a rift over the United Credit Bank matter a while ago. Now that this check stamped with the Imperial Bank seal has been slapped onto the face of the Democratic Party, even if President Ulysses S. Grant were deaf, he would conclude that I am the one who betrayed him behind his back. He won't come to question me because he still needs my newspapers to help him get votes. But he will certainly, in his heart, regard the Argyle Family as his most dangerous political enemy in the future. This is called borrowing a knife to kill; Edward. Old Morgan wants to use the power of The White House as the meat cleaver in his hand."
After hearing this chilling analysis, Frost's palms were full of sweat.
"Boss, what should we do now? Should we immediately contact President Ulysses S. Grant and clarify the source of these funds to him? We can pull out all the records of large-amount cashier's checks issued by the Imperial Bank yesterday and send them to him to see!"
"Clarify? Clarifying at this time will only make President Ulysses S. Grant think that I am panicked because the conspiracy has been exposed."
Felix shook his head and threw the cigar onto the desk. Besides, President Ulysses S. Grant is not exactly a good person either. Yielding in front of him would be a sign of weakness.
They have already experienced commercial tactics, and now the other side has started playing political conspiracies. Since Old Morgan is willing to burn a million dollars just to muddy the waters, then I must set the rules even more bloodily in this arena.
Felix closed his eyes, rapidly sorting through every node in his mind. He had to confirm whether there was a real traitor within his own ranks, or if there was some self-righteous idiot in this building who had actually made contact with those losers from the South.
After a full two minutes, Felix opened his eyes. Sunlight pierced through the morning mist, illuminating that cold, stern face. He stroked his chin, turned his head, looked at Frost, and asked a question.
"Edward, tell me... do any of our people have contact with the Democratic Party?"