“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!”
“Over what?”
“The bo—od—y,” whispered Simson.
“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.