"'Tis that devil of a Black Ferguson," the idiot piped from his vantage ground. "He frightened me; he frightened me." Breaking into a foolish habit of improvising rhymes, he shrieked:
"The devil's kin; the devil's son;
And all the devils rolled in one!"
Dunvegan silenced him with a word and addressed the Irishman.
"Burke," he asked, "can you corroborate this poor fool's statement? We want the right man. The Factor won't forgive any blundering."
"Fair as a Dane wid the same blue eyes! It's him. It's Black Ferguson."
"Do I look black?" demanded the baited man angrily.
"Saprie! We no be see you on de inside," was Basil Dreaulond's swift answer.
"I'm from the South," persisted the object of their quest, turning to Bruce. "A Free Trader, I tell you." His gestures were of irritation.
Dunvegan smiled a cold, triumphant smile. He delighted in the loss of his enemy's cool demeanor, in the failure of his self-possession.
"Ferguson," he began, "you're a weak liar. Your accent betrays you. We have you identified to our satisfaction, and your next interview will be with Macleod. I warn you that this first meeting with the Factor may be your last and only one, so carry yourself accordingly!" Dunvegan broke off, waving an arm to his band. "Bind him!" he added.