The man, who had knocked, and who walked in with an impatient step as if the waiting had been little to his taste, was tall and slight; for the rest, a cloak, and a hat flapping low over his face, hid both features and complexion. I noticed that Ferguson bowed again and humbly, but did not address him; and that the gentleman also kept silence until he had seen the door secured behind him. Then, and as his host with seeming clumsiness, brushed past him and so secured a position with his back to the light, he asked sharply, "Where is he?" The plotter leant his hands on the back of the chair and paused an instant before he answered. When he did he spoke with less assurance than I had ever heard him speak before; he even stammered a little. "Your Grace," he said, "has come to see a person--who--who wrote to you? From this house?" "I have. Where is he?" "Here." "Here? But where, man, where?" the newcomer replied, looking quickly round. Still Ferguson did not move. "My lord Duke, you came here, in a word--to see Lord Middleton?" he said. It was easy to see that the visitor's gorge rose at the other's manner, no less than at this naming of names. But with an effort he swallowed his chagrin. "If you know that, you know all," he answered with composure. "So without more, take me to him. But I may as well say, sir, since you seem to be in his confidence----" "It was my hand wrote the letter." "Was it so? Then you should know, sir, that a madder and more foolish thing was never done! If my Lord Middleton," the stranger continued coldly, his tone inclining to sarcasm rather than to feeling, "desired to ruin his best friend and the one most able to save him in a certain event--if he meant to requite, sir, one who has already suffered more than was reasonable in his service, by consigning him to his destruction, he did well. Otherwise he was mad. Mad, or worse, to send such a letter to a place where he must know of his own knowledge that nine letters out of ten are opened by others' hands!" "Your Grace is right," Ferguson answered drily, and in his natural voice; at the sound of which, either because of its native harshness or because it touched some chord in his memory, the other started. "But the fact is," the plotter continued hardily, and with a smack of impertinence, "my Lord Middleton, so far as I know, is still with the King at St. Germain's." "At St. Germain's?" the stranger cried. "With the King?" "Yes, and to be candid," Ferguson answered, "I was not aware, my lord, that you had sent him a safe conduct." "You villain!" the Duke cried, and stepped forward, his rage excited as much by the man's manner as by the trick which had been played him. "How dared you say, then, that he was here?" he continued. "Answer, fellow, or it will be the worse for you." "I said only, your Grace," Ferguson replied, retreating a step, "that the writer of the letter was here."