“We must go down and rout them out,” said Cyril, getting out of bed. “You go in by this door, Wright, and wake the King, while I get some clothes on.”
Almost the first thought that now occurred to Cyril’s mind was the recollection of his revolver, but when he looked for it in vain in its accustomed place, he remembered that he must have left it down-stairs.
“I must go and hunt it up,” he said to himself, as he hurried into his clothes. “Caerleon has got his, at any rate. I remember now that he was carrying it.”
But while the words were in his mouth, Caerleon came in hastily in his shirt-sleeves, with his revolver in his hand.
“Who has been tampering with this, Cyril?” he asked, sharply. “Some one has given it a wrench, and the trigger won’t work.”
“There’s something fishy about all these mysterious occurrences,” said Cyril. “Does it strike you that our guns are at the other end of the house, and that we have no other weapons here?”
“If you ask me, my lords,” said Wright, impressively, “I think there’s foul play.”
“Stuff!” said Caerleon. “Don’t croak until you’re told, Wright. If we can’t find any weapons, we must get hold of something that will do instead—not that I think there’s any danger, but it’s as well to be on the safe side.”
“Of course,” said Cyril, “the guards may have all struck work at once, and be enjoying sweet repose in their quarters, but the coincidence about the revolvers is suspicious.”
“I have it!” cried Caerleon. “There are our dress-swords, which will be better than nothing. Put on a coat or something, Cyril, while I get them out, and don’t stand there shivering.”