And then there came over his face an expression of mixed humour and triumph.
"By the bloomin' idol made of mud!" he cried, "you've given me the climax. It makes the story more moral than ever."
And he murmured, as if only for himself: "Which side, O Bud! Which side?"
"Let's be absolutely silent for a bit," said Dick. "With our ears to the partition, we might hear something."
With intense concentration, they listened for several minutes.
"It's no good," said Dick at last. "Talking, talking all the time, but the train makes too much row, and the padding's too thick."
"I heard something," said the girl. "Not words--but the different tones of two voices, arguing. One wants to do something, and the other doesn't. He's afraid, I think."
"The brave one's here--with his back to me. He's strong and heavy, I think, because his voice is growly, and he sits back hard now and then, and I can feel the partition bulge a little. And then--he keeps fiddling with something that clicks."
"Clicks? How? Like the hammer of an empty gun?" asked Dick, puzzled.
The girl leaned forward and touched the spring lock of the carriage door.
"No. Heavier than a pistol. Clicky and thumpy, like this lock if you pull it and let go."
"Don't touch it--I know," he said. "I suppose you'll be wanting half the proceeds, and your name as part author."
"Collaboration. You've completed the plot."
He changed his seat to face her from the opposite corner; looked at his watch, and thereafter gazed steadily from the window with down-bent eyes for so long that Amaryllis grew bored and nervous.
"Two minutes to do a mile," he said at last, having again looked at his watch. "It's fifteen minutes since we left Harthborough--seven miles and a half. That's another seven and a half to go--Todsmoor's the station, I think. They'll try it on within five minutes, or give it up. What did you do with that snoring beast's automatic?"
Amaryllis thrust her hand deep into the Brundage pocket, rummaging.
"It is a bottomless pit, certainly. But it's much discreeter than yours are, Dick. They bulge so interestingly, and make you an awfuller sight than all the rest of your funny things together," she replied, laughing at him.
Successful at last, she produced the Browning pistol which Melchard had surrendered on the Roman road. "But it bumped horribly when I walked--and it _would_ always knock the same place on my knee. Oh, Dick, shall we ever get into clothes that'll feel nice again?"