"Who goes there? Give the countersign," issued from the keyhole in Master Augustus's tones.
"Blood!" said Peter, with grim emphasis.
A pause followed, during which he kept his ear to the crack. A whispered consultation was going on inside, then presently, a small window opened and Master Augustus's head appeared.
"Oh, Pete! Is dat you?" There was relief in his tone. "Wait a minute an' I'll let you in. I was 'fraid it was gypsies."
"Well, it ain't gypsies; it's the local p'lice on the track o' stolen goods. You open up that door an' be quick about it!"
A long wait ensued while Augustus ineffectually fumbled with the lock, talking meanwhile to Peter in as loud a voice as possible to drown the sound of movement behind him. The door was finally flung wide, and Peter was received with a disarming smile. He stepped inside and peered about.
"Where have ye hid the other boys?" he demanded.
"I'm a p'liceman," lisped Augustus, with engaging inconsequence, "stationed here to guard de lane. I fought it was safest to keep de door locked for fear some more gypsy people might come along."
"Where's the ladder gone to that loft?"