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?" "It's the Phoenix," said everyone, in a voice so joyous and so full of relief as to be a sort of whispered shout. "Hush!" said the voice from the letter-box slit. "Your slaves have gone a-merry-making. The latch of this portal is too stiff for my delicate beak. But at the side--the little window above the shelf whereon your bread lies--it is not fastened." "Right O!" said Cyril. And Anthea added: "I wish you'd meet us there, dear Phoenix." [Illustration: "HE DIVED INTO THE PANTRY HEAD-FIRST."] The children crept round to the pantry window. It is at the side of the house, and there is a green gate labelled "Tradesmen's Entrance," which is always kept bolted. But if you get one foot on the fence between you and next door, and one on the handle of the gate, you are over before you know where you are. This, at least, was the experience of Cyril and Robert, and even, if the truth must be told, of Anthea and Jane. So in almost no time all four were in the narrow gravelled passage that runs between that house and the next. Then Robert made a back, and Cyril hoisted himself up and got his knicker-bockered knee on the concrete window-sill. He dived into the pantry head-first, as one dives into water, and his legs waved in the air as he went, just as your legs do when you are first beginning to learn to dive. The soles of his boots--squarish, muddy patches--disappeared. "Give us a leg-up," said Robert to his sisters. "No, you don't," said Jane, firmly. "I'm not going to be left outside here with just Anthea, and have something creep up behind us out of the dark. Squirrel can go and open the back door." A light had sprung awake in the pantry. Cyril always said the Phoenix turned the gas on with its beak and lighted it with a waft of its wing, but he was excited at the time and perhaps he really did it himself with matches, and then forgot all about it. He let the others in by the back door. And when it had been bolted again and the luggage had been got off the doorstep the children went all over the house and lighted every single gas-jet they could find. For they couldn't help feeling that this was just the dark, dreary winter's evening when an armed burglar might easily be expected to appear at any moment. There is nothing like light when you are afraid of burglars, or of anything else, for that matter.