In 1691, Titus, in order to be near the focal point of political intrigue and faction, had taken a house within the precinct of Whitehall.  To this house Fuller, who lived hard by, found admission.  The evil work which had been begun in him, when he was still a child, by the memoirs of Dangerfield, was now completed by the conversation of Oates.  The Salamanca Doctor was, as a witness, no longer formidable; but he was impelled, partly by the savage malignity which he felt towards all whom he considered as his enemies, and partly by mere monkeylike restlessness and love of mischief, to do, through the instrumentality of others, what he could no longer do in person.  In Fuller he had found the corrupt heart, the ready tongue and the unabashed front which are the first qualifications for the office of a false accuser.  A friendship, if that word may be so used, sprang up between the pair.  Oates opened his house and even his purse to Fuller.  The veteran sinner, both directly and through the agency of his dependents, intimated to the novice that nothing made a man so important as the discovering of a plot, and that these were times when a young fellow who would stick at nothing and fear nobody might do wonders.  The Revolution,—­such was the language constantly held by Titus and his parasites,—­had produced little good.  The brisk boys of Shaftesbury had not been recompensed according to their merits.  Even the Doctor, such was the ingratitude of men, was looked on coldly at the new Court.  Tory rogues sate at the council board, and were admitted to the royal closet.  It would be a noble feat to bring their necks to the block.  Above all, it would be delightful to see Nottingham’s long solemn face on Tower Hill.  For the hatred with which these bad men regarded Nottingham had no bounds, and was probably excited less by his political opinions, in which there was doubtless much to condemn, than by his moral character, in which the closest scrutiny will detect little that is not deserving of approbation.  Oates, with the authority which experience and success entitle a preceptor to assume, read his pupil a lecture on the art of bearing false witness.  “You ought,” he said, with many oaths and curses, “to have made more, much more, out of what you heard and saw at Saint Germains.  Never was there a finer foundation for a plot.  But you are a fool; you are a coxcomb; I could beat you; I would not have done so.  I used to go to Charles and tell him his own.  I called Lauderdale rogue to his face.  I made King, Ministers, Lords, Commons, afraid of me.  But you young men have no spirit.”  Fuller was greatly edified by these exhortations.  It was, however, hinted to him by some of his associates that, if he meant to take up the trade of swearing away lives, he would do well not to show himself so often at coffeehouses in the company of Titus.  “The Doctor,” said one of the gang, “is an excellent person, and has done great things in his time; but many people are prejudiced against him; and, if you are really going to discover a plot, the less you are seen with him the better.”  Fuller accordingly ceased to frequent Oates’s house, but still continued to receive his great master’s instructions in private.