"They saw the car outside, and the porter shutting this door. If they hadn't, they'd have bundled in right opposite the entrance, instead of running down the train," reasoned Dick.
"Will they try to come in here, then?" she asked.
"There's no corridor," said Dick.
"But outside? There was a murder—I read about it——"
"Take it easy, little wonder," he answered, with a smile which made of his patronage a tribute. "I haven't got this far to crack in the last lap. I'm thinking out a pretty story for the Sunday Magazine; so no murders, please. They make me nervous. We're all right for a bit—next station's fifteen miles ahead. They're getting their wind next door, and talking it over."
He rose, and lifting Melchard's legs, made him lie at full length along the seat farthest from the engine and the motor-cyclists. Next, he drew down the little corner-blinds of each window, leaving the door-blinds up; then sat down again resuming his attitude of abstraction.
In the silence which followed Amaryllis watched him until confidence crept into her unawares, and she found herself becoming sleepily interested in smaller matters than life and death. She did not believe any longer that anyone could prevail against "Limping Dick."
She smiled to herself over the strange figure he cut, forgetting her own.
His bulging pockets amused her into trying to remember all the things he had stowed away in them.
The newest seemed to be an oily piece of cotton rag, sticking out from the side pocket of his Norfolk jacket, which looked already, since she had seen it first, three years older.