“It’s not Felgate,” said Ainger, “for he has burnt his fingers in trying to fix it on Railsford himself; and it he was the real culprit, you may depend on it he’d have kept very quiet.”
“Munger has kept quiet,” said Barnworth.
“Munger! Why, he’s a fool and a coward both. He could never have done such a thing.”
“Let’s ask him. I’ll tell you why I mentioned him. I never thought of it till now. The other day I happened to be saying at dinner to somebody that that affair was going to be cleared up at last, and that the doctor had been in consultation with Bickers and Railsford about it the evening before—you know, that’s what we were told—and would probably come across—this was an embellishment of my own—with a policeman, and point the fellow out. Munger was sitting opposite me, and when I began to speak he had just filled his tumbler with water, and was going to drink it. But half-way through he suddenly stopped, and put the tumbler down with such a crack on the table that he spilt half the water on to the cloth. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but it occurs to me now.”
“Well,” said Ainger, “it’s an off-chance. Staff, do you mind bringing him?”
“The one thing to do,” said Barnworth, while the messenger was gone, “is to frighten it out of him. Nothing else will do.”
“Well,” said Ainger, “if you think so. You must back me up, though.”
After a long interval, Stafford returned to say that Munger was in bed and refused to get up.
“Good,” said Barnworth; “I like that. Now, Staff, you amiable old boy, will you kindly go to him again and say that the prefects are waiting for him in the captain’s study, and that if he is not here in five minutes they will have to do without him. I fancy that’s true, isn’t it?” he added, appealing to his colleagues. “Let’s see if that doesn’t draw him. If it does, depend upon it there was something in that tumbler.”
Barnworth was right. In less than five minutes Munger appeared, half-dressed, and decidedly uneasy in his manner.