_"... Good gracious_ (sang Mr. Field), _what was that?"_

It was a rattling at the handle of the door. A rattling that turned
almost immediately into a spirited banging. A voice accompanied the
banging. "Who is there?" inquired the voice. Mike recognised it as Mr.
Wain's. He was not alarmed. The man who holds the ace of trumps has no
need to be alarmed. His position was impregnable. The enemy was held
in check by the locked door, while the other door offered an admirable
and instantaneous way of escape.

Mike crept across the room on tip-toe and opened the window. It had
occurred to him, just in time, that if Mr. Wain, on entering the room,
found that the occupant had retired by way of the boys' part of the
house, he might possibly obtain a clue to his identity. If, on the
other hand, he opened the window, suspicion would be diverted. Mike
had not read his "Raffles" for nothing.

The handle-rattling was resumed. This was good. So long as the frontal
attack was kept up, there was no chance of his being taken in the
rear--his only danger.

He stopped the gramophone, which had been pegging away patiently at
"The Quaint Old Bird" all the time, and reflected. It seemed a pity to
evacuate the position and ring down the curtain on what was, to date,
the most exciting episode of his life; but he must not overdo the
thing, and get caught. At any moment the noise might bring
reinforcements to the besieging force, though it was not likely, for
the dining-room was a long way from the dormitories; and it might
flash upon their minds that there were two entrances to the room. Or
the same bright thought might come to Wain himself.