He was lying, and his flaccid face betrayed him.
“Mislaid! That is a word to use! Mislaid! Soul of my God, it is your honour that you have mislaid!”
He tried to bluster.
“What foolery is this? I lose a ring, and strange words come back with it.”
“Tell me, son, how did you lose the ring to the grey friar? How came it that a certain man was betrayed? How was it that your ring wrought murder?”
He was white to the lips now.
“It is false.”
She saw him shrink and falter, and a bitter, scornful cry escaped from her.
“Son, son, you shame me to the death; but by the fear of God that is in me I will bring you down into the dust. For out of the dust you must rise. Let Fulk Ferrers come to us.”
Knollys went to the door, and Richard’s eyes followed him—eyes that seemed to expect a ghost. He saw Fulk enter—Fulk the young man in his own likeness, bareheaded, calm, with a steadfast look about his eyes. And he sat back in his chair, shrinking, moistening his lips.