safe and sound at my little place on the Berea, near Durban, where I am
now writing. Thence I bid farewell to all who have accompanied me
through the strangest trip I ever made in the course of a long and
varied experience.

P.S.--Just as I had written the last word, a Kafir came up my avenue of
orange trees, carrying a letter in a cleft stick, which he had brought
from the post. It turned out to be from Sir Henry, and as it speaks for
itself I give it in full.

October 1, 1884.
Brayley Hall, Yorkshire.

My Dear Quatermain,

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 expressio