At a dim side-passage off the main corridor they stopped and peered down. All the noises of the ship were away from them, in the dim tumult of the throng milling up on B deck towards the concert-hall. Here it was so quiet the sea's rush and murmur became again discernible, and the low creaking of woodwork. But there were voices some-where. They listened a moment before they could place them as coming from behind the closed door of C 47 in the passage.
"It iss all right," whispered the captain, nodding. "Dat iss Sparks and hiss cousin, de Bermondsey Terror. Ay half start de Bermondsey Terror off on Old Rob Roy, and ay bet he don't want to stop. But don't disturb 'em, or we Haff to explain. Walk soft____!"
C' 46, Dr. Kyle's cabin, had its door closed. They tip-toed down, and Morgan felt his heart rise in his throat, growing to an enormous pounding, as he softly turned the knob. He pushed it open…
Nobody inside.
One danger passed. If there had been somebody…
Again he felt hot fear as he switched on the light, but there was nobody. It was a large cabin, with what he supposed to be a bathroom attached, and now in a wild state of confusion. Not even a private detective could have called Warren's methods in the least subtle.
Under the porthole stood a large wardrobe trunk with Its leaves apart, its lid propped up and top shelf streaming ties. He pointed.
"Look there, Skipper. If that steel box were thrown in this porthole last night, it would land behind that trunk and nobody would ever see it unless the trunk were moved… "
Valvick closed the door softly. He was peering at two valises open on the floor, and an unlocked brief-case lying across the berth.
"Come on," he said; "we haff to work fast. Take a handful of these papers and shove 'em somew'ere. Coroosh! Ay feel like a crook! Ay don't like diss. What you doing?"