Then the Suffolk man, who worked in the engine-house and cleaned railway lamps, wrote direct to William Massarene, London. This address was of course sufficient. The letter found its way in due course to Harrenden House and arrived there a week after the opening of Parliament, amongst many coroneted envelopes, appeals for subscriptions, and political pamphlets. It was candid, simple, ingenuous, but it was certainly not politic, and was extremely impolite. It began abruptly:-- “_William Massarene, Sir--Blasted Blizzard, as we used to call yer--you’ll remember Robert Airley, though they say you figger as a swell now in Lonnon town. We’ve wrote to Consuls and They won’t do nought, so I write this for Robert to you. You bought Robert’s claim; you knew ’twas tin, yet ye niver giv ’im nought but thetty dollars. Robert has workd on yer Line twenty year if One, an’ ’e can work no More. ’Is wife she ded last Month, ’cos she were out o’ food, an’ ’is Son be ded too--rin over on yer Line. Ye’re Bound to give ’im enuff to kip ’is life in him. Not to speak o’ the placer-claim as ye took and found yer mine in it. Robert’s a ole servant on the Line, an’ ye be bound to kip life in ’im. Ye was allus close-fisted an’ main ’ard, and a Blackgud in all ways, but they ses as ’ow ye be a swell now, an’ it won’t Become ye to let a ole servant starve as was allus God-fearin’ an’ law-abidin’, an’ ’ave workt as ’ard as a ’oss, an’ never brott the tin claim agen ye, tho’ ye cheated so bad._” The letter was signed as that to the Consul had been, and Massarene read it from the first line to the last. He had two secretaries at this time, young men of good family and university education, of whom he stood in perpetual awe; but he never allowed these youths to see his correspondence until it had been examined by himself. He received too many letters menacing and injurious, containing too many references to his past existence, for the bland and supercilious young gentlemen to be trusted with their perusal. Therefore the letter from the two railway men in North Dakota came direct into his own hands as he sat in his library before a table covered with papers and blue books, and surrounded by well-filled book-shelves off which he never removed a volume. When he had read it his face was terrible to behold. One of his footmen coming in to look at the fire was frightened at its black savage terrible scowl. It is hard for any man to find his past always rising up like Banquo’s ghost against him; to William Massarene it was insupportable.