He armed himself with a match--the last one in the box--and quietly felt his way along the corridor and down the stairs.

There was a glimmer of light from under the maids' door as he passed, which told him they were up and that he would not have long to wait downstairs.

At the foot of the stairs he turned sharp round, and following the wall with his hand, came at length on the familiar handle of the "boot-box." To his surprise the door was locked, but the key was on the outside.
"A sell if I hadn't been able to get in," said he to himself, opening the door.
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.