There is no Dian the Beautiful.

There is no world within a world.

Pellucidar is but a realm of your imagination--noth-ing 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 coinci-dences 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.