"Find your uncle. Have all wait for me in the library. I will come in a moment."
He ran down the corridor to his room, dragged a leather box out into the floor, unlocked it and took out the gun and ammunition which he had packed there at Doune. He examined the breech of the gun a moment with suffocating interest. It had not been touched, doubtless because the box seemed an ordinary piece of luggage, and he had kept the key to it. He put the gun barrel swiftly into its stock, filled his pockets with cartridges, and returned, running, to the library.
There he found a certain order which he had not hoped for. Cyrus Childers, who had gone to look at the situation for himself, had returned. He had restored the lights, thrown a rug over the useless weapons on the table, and was talking calmly to the others when the Duke entered. He looked up, saw what the Duke carried, and shook his head.
"We must put away these guns," he said, "there is no need of them. We must be careful not to provoke violence. I am going out to talk to these people. Let us not lose our heads."
It was certain that the man's quiet, masterful seizure of the situation had cleared the air. The Duke saw this and hesitated to make an issue.
"I agree with you," he said, "shooting is the last thing to be done, but one ought to take every precaution."
The old man frowned, lifting the muscles of his mouth. "If a man has a gun ready," he said, "he is apt to use it."
The Duke smiled. "I think you can trust me there."
The old man was not convinced, but he formally agreed.
"Very well," he said, "keep the gun out of sight. I am going out now."