Blasted Blizzard dwelt there! He rang in his ignorance at the grand gateway’s bell. A magnificent functionary bade him begone without even deigning to ask why he had come. He realized that those gilded gates did not open to the like of him. He did not insist or entreat; he shrank away like a starved dog which is refused admittance and dreads a kick, and went into the opposite Park and mingled with the pedestrians, feeling giddy for a moment as the great stream of horses and carriages and persons swept past him in the pale London sunset light. He was a poor, unnoticeable, humble figure, with his battered hat pulled down to shade his eyes and his red bundle under his one arm. Every now and then he put his hand in his breast-pocket to make sure that something which he carried there was safe. He went onward till he found a secluded part of the Park where he could smoke his pipe in peace, and as he smoked could meditate how best to do that which he had come across the Atlantic to accomplish: wild justice, of which the fascination held him fast in its hypnotism. He took his pipe out of his pocket and lighted it, where he sat on a bench under a tree. His tobacco was strong and vulgar in its smell. A young lady, probably a governess, who sat on the same bench with two well-dressed small children, put her handkerchief to her nostrils and looked appealingly at a constable who stood near. The policeman touched him on the shoulder. “We can’t have that stench ’ere, my good man. Leddies don’t like it!” “Aren’t this a public park?” said Airley. “Don’t cheek me, or I’ll run you in as if you was a dawg,” said the guardian of law and order. Airley put out his pipe. His mind was filled with one memory, one intention, one desire; these left no room in it for resentment at petty annoyances. He got up and moved away amongst the well-dressed sauntering people. “Thanks,” said the pretty governess who sat beside the children, with a smile to the constable. Robert Airley walked along slowly with his felt hat drawn down over his eyes. The policeman looked after him suspiciously. “One of the unemployed?” said the governess, with another smile. “Calls himself so, mum, I dessay,” replied the policeman with impatient contempt. “Them wagabonds ought to be took up like dawgs,” he added; he had just beaten a little terrier to death with his truncheon. Robert Airley’s mind was filled with one memory--that of the day on which he had first showed William Massarene the shining bits of “sparkles” at the roots of the long grass. “It’s silver, ain’t it?” he had said to the keeper of that house of entertainment where Margaret Massarene fried sausages for the rough men who drank her husband’s strong waters and hot brews.