Here and there a word penetrated, and she lay more quietly, but not in the rest to which the Harvester had lulled her.
“Hurry man!” groaned the doctor in a whispered aside, and the Harvester ran to the car, awakened the driver and told him he had a clear road to Onabasha, to speed up.
“Where to?” asked the driver.
“Dickson, of the First National.”
In a few minutes the car stopped before the residence and the Harvester made an attack on the front door. Presently the man came.
“Excuse me for routing you out at this time of night,” said the Harvester, “but it's a case of necessity. I have an automobile here. I want you to go to the bank with me, and get me an address from your draft records. I know the rules, but I want the name of my wife's Chicago physician. She is delirious, and I must telephone him.”
The cashier stepped out and closed the door.
“Nine chances out of ten it will be in the vault,” he said.
“That leaves one that it won't,” answered the Harvester. “Sometimes I've looked in when passing in the night, and I've noticed that the books are not always put away. I could see some on the rack to-night. I think it is there.”
It was there, and the Harvester ordered the driver to hurry him to the telephone exchange, then take the cashier home and return and wait. He called the Chicago Information office.