"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.
"At last we became so friendly that I went to visit him at his lodging in the Chepe, and there it was that I first saw him working on these forgeries. Night after night I found him bending over them, working like one possessed. He said that he was making copies for a man in high estate; but one night he chanced to leave a sheet uncovered at the bottom, and there I read 'Charles R.' 'Ah! "high estate" indeed', thought I, but of course said nothing. Well, to make few words of it, another night I chanced to catch him locking up his precious papers in this very box. This time methought he had an evil, hunted look upon his ugly face, but, though I had my doubts, I did not see my way to question him; and as my business took me home upon the morrow, I bade Elijah Annabat farewell. Now, as I said, I had been surpassing fool enough to trust him with some money, on which he did profess he could obtain great usury within a month. Well, I had been home at least two months, and yet had had no tidings of the matter, so I wrote to him. Another month passed, but no answer came. I wrote again; but still there was no answer. Then, while I was yet turning over in my mind what course to take, the Black Box tale leapt over England, and with it flashed into my memory what I had seen in London. 'Ah! I will pay a visit to Elijah Annabat,' said I: and forthwith posted up to town.