Cyril rang again. And the bell did its best to inform the listening children that there was really no one human in the house. They rang again, and listened intently. The hearts of all sank low. It is a terrible thing to be locked out of your own house on a dark, muggy, January evening.
"There is no gas on anywhere," said Jane, in a broken voice.
"I expect they've left the gas on once too often, and the draught blew it out, and they're suffocated in their beds. Father always said they would some day," said Robert, cheerfully.
"Let's go and fetch a policeman," said Anthea, trembling.
"And be taken up for trying to be burglars—no, thank you," said Cyril. "I heard father read out of the paper about a young man who got into his own mother's house, and they got him made a burglar only the other day."
"I only hope the gas hasn't hurt the Phœnix," said Anthea. "It said it wanted to stay in the bathroom cupboard, and I thought it would be all right because the servants never clean that out. But if it's gone and got out and been choked by gas—and, besides, directly we open the door we shall be choked too. I knew we ought to have gone to Aunt Emma at Croydon. Oh, Squirrel, I wish we had. Let's go now."
"Shut up," said her brother, briefly. "There's someone rattling the latch inside."
Everyone listened with all its ears, and everyone stood back as far from the door as the steps would allow.
The latch rattled and clicked. Then the flap of the letter-box lifted itself—everyone saw it by the flickering light of the gas-lamp that shone through the leafless lime tree by the gate—a golden eye seemed to wink at them through the letter-box, and a cautious beak whispered:
"Are you alone?"