"Both are at the 'ospital, sir."
"Do you think he will live?"
"An' 'ow could I say, sir?"
Ferguson called the Medical Center. They permitted him to talk to a doctor and a nurse. The nurse referred him to the doctor, who said:
"He is unconscious. There is a wicked fracture at the base of the brain. He was struck from the back—a club, I believe. He may die without regaining consciousness. I am hoping he will rally and that he will be all right."
Ferguson ordered his car and, with Lees at his heels, jumped in the tonneau. He heard a humming sound back of him. He looked back and saw nothing. Both he and Lees were too impressed for words.
"Step on it," Ferguson ordered the chauffeur. "Drive us to the Medical Center."
At the world's largest group of hospitals, Ferguson's worst fears were confirmed. The patient was reported sinking.
Ferguson, giant of Wall Street, was a low spirited man as he drove back down town to his office. With Lees he passed through the outer offices, buzzing with business and the click of typewriters. Not a head was raised from a desk or machine. It was a well-drilled force.