The Saint took his hand away as if the wood had burned it. The door yielded smoothly! It wasn’t locked, or bolted, or barred, and there wasn’t a creak anywhere. And the doors of houses that haven’t been inhabited since the year Dot don’t do things like that—for one thing, the hinges are so rusted up that it takes a thundering good push to shift them; but these hinges turned like brand-new ones freshly oiled. That meant that someone certainly was using the Old House. And, plus the fact that there was apparently nothing to stop anyone else using it as well, the complete scenery had a howling warning scrawled all over it. A tight little smile moved the Saint’s mouth. “‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said the spider to the fly,” murmured the Saint. “Surest thing you know, son—but not exactly like that sort of boob.” He drew back to think it over, and cast a thoughtful glance at the boarded windows. But the same difficulty presented itself: to break away a plank makes a noise at the best of times, and he could now see that the planks in question were not simply nailed to the frame but solidly riveted in place. That seemed to rule out the windows, which left only the door—with someone waiting for him inside, as like as not. Well, Simon decided, that had got to be faced, and it was better to tackle something you had a line on than something you hadn’t. It wasn’t a time for humming and hawing and eventually leaving your card and promising to look them up next walk you took that way. He was more than ever determined to get inside the Old House that afternoon, and the door was the only way in that presented itself. Therefore, it must be the door. The Saint pushed the door a little further. Nothing happened. Then he slowly edged one eye round at a point where no one within would expect a man to appear—only a few inches off the ground. But inside was darkness, and he could distinguish nothing. The Saint swung the door again, until it was over a foot ajar. _Plop!_ Just the noise that a big stone makes falling into a well; and something nicked the door, breaking a burst of splinters out of the rotten wood. The Saint looked up at the wound, and saw that it would have been on a level with his chest if he had been standing up. That was enough—ultimatum, declaration of war, and attack, all together. And it meant also that, whatever was waiting for him inside, it would probably be healthier to charge right in and take it on than to stick around in the open where half a dozen Tiger Cubs could take pot-shots at him from the windows. The Saint gathered himself for the rush and slid Anna out of her sheath. He tested his muscles, drew a deep breath, and jumped.