Ten minutes later he owned to defeat. He had found the window secured, the door between the rooms showed that it had not been opened at least in months by the accumulation of dust and lint in the interstices, the transom was impossible and Cummings had shown him how the corridor door had been fastened: lock turned and key left cross-wise, bolt shot and engaged, chair wedged under knob. Mr. Mundy frowned and shook his head. There was just one explanation. He offered it kindly. “What you’ve been doing, my boy, is walking in your sleep. Maybe you don’t get enough exercise during the day. Then sleeping with everything shut up like this——”
“But I don’t walk in my sleep in the daytime, do I?” asked Cummings wildly. Mr. Mundy looked blank.
“N-no, but are you—ahem—are you quite certain——”
“Yes, sir,” declared Cummings bitterly. “It’s worse in the daytime.”
“Hum. And he denies it utterly?”
“Yes, he does, but I know it’s him, Mr. Mundy!”
“He,” corrected the instructor from force of habit. “I’ll have a talk with him. Stay here.”
Jonesie opened promptly, the picture of smiling innocence. And he spoke so convincingly! “Mr. Mundy, I really think you’d ought to do something about him, sir,” he said concernedly. “He comes in here and tells the strangest stories and accuses me of annoying him. He says I go into his room and disarrange his things when he’s out. He even says I do it when he’s in bed. He’s threatened to lick me, sir.” Cummings, listening beyond the door, shook a fist helplessly. “You know that isn’t right, sir,” pleaded Jonesie. “He says himself he locks the room up tight. I ask you, sir, how I could get in there if I wanted to.”
“Quite so, Jones, quite so, but—ahem—hasn’t there been some ill-feeling between you two recently?”