When Mr. Holly last wrote, many, many years ago, it was to transmit the manuscript of She, and to announce that he and his ward, Leo Vincey, the beloved of the divine Ayesha, were about to travel to Central Asia in the hope, I suppose, that there she would fulfil her promise and appear to them again.

Often I have wondered, idly enough, what happened to them there; whether they were dead, or perhaps droning their lives away as monks in some Thibetan Lamasery, or studying magic and practising asceticism under the tuition of the Eastern Masters trusting that thus they would build a bridge by which they might pass to the side of their adored Immortal.

Now at length, when I had not thought of them for months, without a single warning sign, out of the blue as it were, comes the answer to these wonderings!

To think—­only to think—­that I, the Editor aforesaid, from its appearance suspecting something quite familiar and without interest, pushed aside that dingy, unregistered, brown-paper parcel directed in an unknown hand, and for two whole days let it lie forgotten.  Indeed there it might be lying now, had not another person been moved to curiosity, and opening it, found within a bundle of manuscript badly burned upon the back, and with this two letters addressed to myself.

Although so great a time had passed since I saw it, and it was shaky now because of the author’s age or sickness, I knew the writing at once—­nobody ever made an “H” with that peculiar twirl under it except Mr. Holly.  I tore open the sealed envelope, and sure enough the first thing my eye fell upon was the signature, L.  H. Holly.  It is long since I read anything so eagerly as I did that letter.  Here it is:—­

“My dear sir,—­I have ascertained that you still live, and strange to say I still live also—­for a little while.

“As soon as I came into touch with civilization again I found a copy of your book She, or rather of my book, and read it—­first of all in a Hindostani translation.  My host—­he was a minister of some religious body, a man of worthy but prosaic mind—­expressed surprise that a ’wild romance’ should absorb me so much.  I answered that those who have wide experience of the hard facts of life often find interest in romance.  Had he known what were the hard facts to which I alluded, I wonder what that excellent person would have said?

“I see that you carried out your part of the business well and faithfully.  Every instruction has been obeyed, nothing has been added or taken away.  Therefore, to you, to whom some twenty years ago I entrusted the beginning of the history, I wish to entrust its end also.  You were the first to learn of She-Who-Must-Be-Obeyed, who from century to century sat alone, clothed with unchanging loveliness in the sepulchres of Kor, waiting till her lost love was born again, and Destiny brought him back to her.