Now Simson, like a cautious youth, aware of the frailty of matches, wisely resolved to penetrate as far as possible into the interior of the cupboard, in the direction in which he knew his particular boots to be, before striking a light.
But at the first step he tripped on something and fell prostrate over a human carcase, which emitted a muffled gasp and moved heavily as he tumbled upon it. Then there went up a yell such as curdled the blood of half Railsford's as they lay in their beds, and made the domestics up- stairs cling to one another in terror, as if their last moment had come.
Simson, with every hair on his head erect, made a frantic dive out of that awful den, banging the door and locking it behind him in a frenzy of fright. Then he dashed up-stairs, and plunged, as white as his shirt, into the dormitory.
Another yell signalised his arrival. Not his, this time, but the joint performance of the other occupants of the room, who, sitting up with their chins on their knees, half petrified by the horror of the first shriek, now gave themselves up for lost when the door broke open in the dark, and a gasping something staggered into the room.
"There's some--bo--dy been mur--dered," gasped Simson, "in the bo--ot- box!"
"Yes," said Simson, wonderfully comforted by the noise and general panic. "I got up early, you know, to have a grind on the track, and went to get my boots, and--I--I fell over it!"
"Has anybody got a light?" shouted Arthur.
But at that moment a light appeared at the door, and Ainger came in.
"What's all this row--what's the matter?"
"Simson says somebody's been murdered in the boot-box," replied Arthur. "I say, hadn't we better go and see?"
It was a practical suggestion. The corridor was already full of half- dressed inquirers, and a moment later Mr Railsford's door opened. The story was repeated to him.
"Come with me, Ainger," said he, quietly; "the rest of you return to your dormitories, and remain there."
Arthur, seized by a noble desire not to leave his future kinsman unprotected in such an hour of peril, elected to disregard this last order, and, accompanied by his henchman, followed the candle at a respectful distance down the stairs.
"There's no blood on the stairs," observed the baronet, in a whisper.