I send you a line a few mails back to say that the three of us, George, Good, and myself, fetched up all right in England.  We got off the boat at Southampton, and went up to town.  You should have seen what a swell Good turned out the very next day, beautifully shaved, frock coat fitting like a glove, brand new eye-glass, etc., etc.  I went and walked in the park with him, where I met some people I know, and at once told them the story of his “beautiful white legs.”

  He is furious, especially as some ill-natured person has printed
  it in a Society paper.

To come to business, Good and I took the diamonds to Streeter’s to be valued, as we arranged, and really I am afraid to tell you what they put them at, it seems so enormous.  They say that of course it is more or less guess-work, as such stones have never to their knowledge been put on the market in anything like such quantities.  It appears that (with the exception of one or two of the largest) they are of the finest water, and equal in every way to the best Brazilian stones.  I asked them if they would buy them, but they said that it was beyond their power to do so, and recommended us to sell by degrees, over a period of years indeed, for fear lest we should flood the market.  They offer, however, a hundred and eighty thousand for a very small portion of them.

You must come home, Quatermain, and see about these things, especially if you insist upon making the magnificent present of the third share, which does not belong to me, to my brother George.  As for Good, he is no good.  His time is too much occupied in shaving, and other matters connected with the vain adorning of the body.  But I think he is still down on his luck about Foulata.  He told me that since he had been home he hadn’t seen a woman to touch her, either as regards her figure or the sweetness of her expression.

I want you to come home, my dear old comrade, and to buy a house near here.  You have done your day’s work, and have lots of money now, and there is a place for sale quite close which would suit you admirably.  Do come; the sooner the better; you can finish writing the story of our adventures on board ship.  We have refused to tell the tale till it is written by you, for fear lest we shall not be believed.  If you start on receipt of this you will reach here by Christmas, and I book you to stay with me for that.  Good is coming, and George; and so, by the way, is your boy Harry (there’s a bribe for you).  I have had him down for a week’s shooting, and like him.  He is a cool young hand; he shot me in the leg, cut out the pellets, and then remarked upon the advantages of having a medical student with every shooting party!

  Good-bye, old boy; I can’t say any more, but I know that you will
  come, if it is only to oblige

Your sincere friend,
Henry Curtis.