sistibly, his eyes wandered to the file-knife, lying heavy on the desk.
“Collins, come over here.” The captain’s voice was quiet, but leaden. 9009 rose slowly and came near, the desk between them. The captain took the file-knife and locked it in a drawer above his knees. Then he sat regarding the convict in silence. As he looked into the sombre eyes of the captain and at the scowl between his shaggy brows, 9009 let his head go back, stiffening his thick neck, and his under-jaw thrust itself slightly forward. He could not help it; the movement was a pure reflex, as unconscious as the threat-grimace of a dog meeting the growl of another dog. The captain watched the change, searching the hard face before him. Then he spoke, slowly, uttering each word with great distinctness.
“You watched Japanese Tommy kill Thurston this afternoon, and you didn’t call a guard nor make a signal.” He paused. A twitch of protest rose from 9009’s feet along his whole body. But it had not time to find voice; the captain
