"Ah! I am with you there," rejoined my father grimly. "As you say, ’tis wonderfully like indeed--and why? Because ’twas written by a wonderfully clever man." "And who was that?" I asked point-blank. "One Robert Ferguson," replied my father slowly. "What! the great Ferguson?" I cried, astonished. "Great if you choose to call him so," came the answer, in the same deep, measured tones. "But wicked, I should say. Ferguson the plotter!"--(here he raised his voice)--"Ferguson the traitor, liar, thief, and hypocrite! As black a scoundrel as e’er set foot upon God’s earth!" As, with blazing eyes and ever-rising voice, my father poured forth this fierce denunciation, my amazement broke all bounds. I knew this man, this wicked rogue, by cold repute--as who did not? for his name and deeds were blazoned everywhere. How he had been Churchman, Presbyterian, Independent, Writer, and Preceptor--everything by turn. How he had used religion as a cloak for vilest ends; how he had played false with every party; and how, in the end, when the Rye House plot leaked out (of which he was prime mover), he had, with a mocking laugh, abandoned his accomplices to their fate, while he, disguised, escaped abroad. Yes, I knew this brazen, barefaced rogue right well; but that these documents--these fresh examples of his falsity and cunning--should have come into our house, was what so amazed me; and this perplexity was swiftly noted by my father, for while I yet sat there in blank bewilderment he smiled and said: "This matter sorely puzzles you, I see." "Puzzles me!" I cried. "Aye, sir, that it does and more. What can you have had to do with Ferguson, and how came you by those papers?" "That is a natural question," he said, "and I will answer it as briefly as may be. About six years ago I met this man, this rogue, this Ferguson, in London; though I did not then know that ’twas he, for, as you know, he went by divers names, and had a separate lodging for each name. With me he passed as one Elijah Annabat, a scrivener, in the city; and, oh! shame on me for my blindness, Michael, but his words and ways were such that I counted him a right good fellow cursed with an ugly face. Nay, worse, I even trusted him with money. But I overrun my tale.