What was this instrument—ticking away here in the great Sahara—but a travesty upon the possible! 

 Would I have believed in it had I not seen it with my own eyes? 

 And the initials—D. I.—upon the slip of paper! 

 David’s initials were these—David Innes. 

 I smiled at my imaginings. I ridiculed the assumption that there was an inner world and that these wires led downward through the earth’s crust to the surface of Pellucidar. And yet— 

 Well, I sat there all night, listening to that tantalizing clicking, now and then moving the sending-key just to let the other end know that the instrument had been discovered. In the morning, after carefully returning the box to its hole and covering it over with sand, I called my servants about me, snatched a hurried breakfast, mounted my horse, and started upon a forced march for Algiers. 

 I arrived here today. In writing you this letter I feel that I am making a fool of myself. 

 There is no David Innes. 

 There is no Dian the Beautiful. 

 There is no world within a world. 

 Pellucidar is but a realm of your imagination—nothing more. 

 BUT— 

 The incident of the finding of that buried telegraph instrument upon the lonely Sahara is little short of uncanny, in view of your story of the adventures of David Innes. 

 I have called it one of the most remarkable coincidences in modern fiction. I called it literature before, but—again pardon my candor—your story is not. 

 And now—why am I writing you? 

 Heaven knows, unless it is that the persistent clicking of that unfathomable enigma out there in the vast silences of the Sahara has so wrought upon my nerves that reason refuses longer to function sanely. 

 I cannot hear it now, yet I know that far away to the south, all alone beneath the sands, it is still pounding out its vain, frantic appeal. 

 It is maddening. 

 It is your fault—I want you to release me from it. 

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