Hennion came from the bridge and down Bank Street, which was brilliant with lights. He turned up an outrunning street and came out on the square, where stood Port Argent's city hall and court house and jail, where there was a fountain that sometimes ran, and beds of trimmed foliage plants arranged in misguided colour-designs. Several lights were burning in the barred windows of the old jail. He stopped and looked at the lights, and wondered what varieties of human beings were there. The jail was another structure which would have been futile without people to go in, at least to dislike going in. The man who shot Wood was there. Why did he shoot Wood? What was his futile idea in that? The jail was old and dilapidated. Some of the bricks had crumbled under the barred windows. Hennion walked into the entrance, and rang the bell. The jailor was middle-aged, bearded, and smoking a short pipe. “Can I see Hicks, Sweeney?” “Got a permit? Oh! Mr. Hennion! Well, it ain't regular, you know.” “You can stay by.” “Well, all right. No, but I'll have to lock you in. It's the rules.” They went up a flight of dark stairs, through a corridor, where a watchman passed them. They stopped at a door, and the jailor turned the key. “Hicks, gentleman to see you.” 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.” 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.”