He had closed the door when he left the stable. He remembered turning about with the rack in one hand while he drew the knob with the other.
Yes, he was sure he had closed the door. He stepped within the doorway, and almost as he did so he heard a step on the stair and a shuffle as if some one were crowding against the wall in the shadow.
“Who’s there?” asked Allan.
There was no answer.
“You might as well speak,” continued Allan; “you can’t get away.”
No sound came in reply to this.
Allan opened the door as far as it would go, and as he did so a figure arose in front of him and roughly tried to slip past him. Allan was too quick for the figure. He caught it with both hands—for happily he had not carried anything with him to the stable—and with all the force at his command threw it back against the steps.
The figure grunted at this but gave no other sign that might help to its identification.
“Who are you?” demanded Allan again, panting with his exertions to hold the wriggling unknown, who presently worked his way off the steps and with a quick leap to his feet had almost reached the door, when Allan caught him again and the two dropped in a heap across the sill.
The light from the house now fell on the face of the unknown. It was Cheney.