It was nearly a year after the affair on Malabar Hill before I had the heart to return with your mother to Bombay.  I had thought all emotion forever dead within me, but, ah! how little do we understand ourselves.  Twelve months had not passed, and already I was conscious of a vague ache—­a feeling that something, I scarcely knew what, had gone wrong, so terribly wrong!  I told myself that I was now married, and had a duty both to my wife and society, and I tried hard to ignore the ache, on the one hand, and not to permit myself to define and analyse it on the other.  But a man does not have to understand anatomy in order to break his heart, and so my longing defined itself even by itself.  The old fire, built on a virgin hearth, was far from out.  Society had heaped a mouthful of conventional ashes upon it, but they had served only to preserve it.  From the fiat of the human heart there is no court of appeal.

One night, to my utter amazement, I received a letter from Lona which you will find filed away among my other valuable documents.

It was addressed in her own quaint little hand, and I trembled violently as I opened the envelope.  It was but a brief note, and ran as follows: 

“I am dying, and have much to explain before I go.  Be generous, and do not think too harshly of me.  Suspend your judgment until I have spoken.  You must come by stealth, or you will not be permitted to see me.  Follow my directions carefully and you will have no trouble in reaching me.  Go at once to the cave on Malabar Hill, whistle thrice, and one will appear who will conduct you safely to me.  Follow him, and whatever happens, make no noise.  Do not delay—­I can last but little longer. 
          
                                            “Lona.”

I did not even pause to re-read the letter, or to ask why it was necessary to follow such singular directions in order to be led to her.  I simply knew she had written to me; that she was dying; that she wanted me; that was all, but it was enough.  Dazed, filled with a strange mixture of dread and yearning, I hurried to the cave.  It was already night when I reached it—­just such a moonlit night as that on which, nearly a year before, Lona and I had planned our elopement; and now that heart, which then had beaten so wildly against mine, was slowly throbbing itself into eternal silence, —­and I—­I had been more than dead ever since.

I looked about on all sides, but no human being was visible.  I whistled thrice, but no sound came in response.  Again I whistled, with the same result.  Where was my guide?  Perhaps he was in the cave and had not heard me.  I entered it to see, but had barely passed the narrow portal when a voice said close behind me:  “Did you whistle, Sahib?” The suddenness, the strangeness of this uncanny appearance, so close to me that I felt the breath of the words upon my neck, sent a chill over me.  I shall never forget that feeling!