Hicks marked his place and closed the book.
“I know who you are.”
“I was a friend of Wood's, in a way, but I'm not here in malice. I gathered you hadn't anything personal against him. It seemed to follow you had some sort of a long-range motive in it. I wanted to ask you why you shot Wood.”
Hicks' gaze grew slowly in intentness as if his mind were gathering behind it, concentrating its power on one point. The point seemed to be midway between and above Hennion's eyes. Hennion had an impulse to put his hand to the spot, as if it were burnt, but his habit of impassiveness prevented. He thought the gaze might represent the way in which Hicks' mind worked. A focussing mind was a good thing for anyone who worked with his brains, but it might have extravagances. An analysis concentrated and confined to an infinitely small point in the centre of the forehead might make an infinitely small hole to the back of the head, but it would not comprehend a whole character. A man's character ran to the ends of his hands and feet.
“I'm an engineer,” Hennion went on, “and in that way I have to know the effectiveness of things I handle and apply. And in that way men too are to me so much effectiveness.”
“I know about you,” said Hicks sharply. “Your men like you. You've never had a strike.”
“Why—no.”
Hicks' manner had changed. It was quick, excited, and angular.
“You're wrong. They're something more to you, that you didn't count in. Why do they like you?”
“I don't know.”