"No," I continued, still watching narrowly his face, "thou hast only to say one word, and the place is thine."
"What?" he cried, looking up, a smile swiftly replacing the tears. "But no; promises are easy to make, hard to keep. How do I know that thou canst fulfill that which thou dost now promise?"
I hesitated; the time had come for me to play my last card. Months before, I had found one night on the streets of London a ring, large, peculiar, strange, with a miter carved upon the soft gold. I had carried it to a jeweler, thinking that I might possibly find the owner. He, being a Catholic, and high in the church councils, had told me that it was a ring of state of some bishop; whose he did not know. I had kept the ring, not finding the owner, and now drew it from my finger, where I had worn it, holding it out to Father Francis.
He took it in his fingers, and gazed at it. A look of amazement came over his face, and he looked up, the ring still in his hand.
"What is it that thou wouldst ask? I will answer it," he said, bending nearer to me, our heads almost meeting over the table, his flushed face touching mine.
"Who is it that is at the bottom of this plan to kidnap and detain me here?" I asked.
He would have answered—a moment of hesitation—he opened his mouth, and I bent forward eagerly to catch the answer.
Suddenly a look of horror came over his face; he was gazing up, the expression upon his countenance such as I have seen in the eyes of a bird, charmed by the baleful gaze of a snake.
The voice of DeNortier at my elbow broke the silence. "My dear sir, I object to thy asking such pointed questions," he said.