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."
"M'm!" grunted Dick.
"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."
Dick's face beamed with satisfaction.
"Don't touch it—I know," he said. "I suppose you'll be wanting half the proceeds, and your name as part author."