CHAPTER IX—HICKS
HICKS was sitting within by a plain board table, reading. It was a whitewashed room and had a window with rusted bars. The door banged, and the key again creaked in the lock. The jailor walked to and fro in the corridor.
Hicks looked up from his reading, and stared in a half-comprehending way.
“I have a selfish thirst for knowledge, Mr. Hicks,” said Hennion.
He took the chair on the opposite side, and looked at the book on the table. The feeble gas jet stood some six inches out from the wall, directly over the table.
“It's the Bible,” said the other. “It needs to be made modern, but there's knowledge in it.”
“I didn't mean that.”
“Lazarus and Dives. That's fanciful justice. A trick to pacify Lazarus. But there's knowledge. Notice what the dogs did. That's satire.”
It seemed a trifle uncanny, the place, the little man with the absorbed manner, metallic voice and strange language, black hair and beard, intent black eyes. Hennion had never interviewed a criminal before.
“I'm not a reporter, Mr. Hicks, nor a lawyer.”