"Life." The word fell in a hollow silence.
"And do you know this man here--Archie Koerner?"
The convict, as if by an effort, raised his eyes to Archie, dropped them hastily and nodded.
"What do you say?" said Eades. "You must speak up."
"Yes, I know him."
"Where did you know him?"
"In the pen."
It was all clear now, the presence of Ball, the newspapers' promise of a sensation, the doom that had hung in the atmosphere that morning. Marriott watched the convict first with loathing, then with pity, as he realized the fact that when this man had spoken the one word "life"--he had meant "death"--a long, lingering death, drawn out through meaningless days and months and years, blank and barren, a waste in which this one incident, this railroad journey in chains, this temporary reassertion of personality, this brief distinction in the crowded court-room, this hour of change, of contact with free men, were circumstances to occupy his vacant mind during the remaining years of his misery, until his death should end and life once more come to him.
"And now, Mr. Griscom," Eades was saying with a respect that was a mockery, "tell the jury just what Koerner said to you about Detective Kouka."
The convict hesitated, his chin sank into the upright collar of his jacket, his eyes roved over the floor, he crossed, uncrossed and recrossed his legs, picked at his cap nervously.