Buried in a vault of Cox and Co. is an air tight metal box, containing a manuscript which, according to my Last Will and Testament, is to be opened and examined no less than one hundred years after my death. It is my hope that time hasn't ravaged its contents, so it can at last see the light of day.
My readers will, no doubt, be familiar with my previous scribbles. They are of my long and intimate association with Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective. This particular account, however, Holmes was loathe to have me put to paper at all. This was in no way due to failure on his part, but because the adventure affected my dear friend in an extremely personal manner.
For something was stolen from him. Something that no mortal or devil has the right to touch. I dare to say "There but for the grace of God, goes Sherlock Holmes", but it was not the hand of Providence that saved him. I am not unduly singing my praises when I write that I had a small part to play in the success of that business. But the real credit goes not to Holmes nor myself, but rather five young girls.
It is my fervent wish that anyone reading this account in the distant future will perhaps see within their own imagination the possibility of magic and miracles. In my lifetime, logic and science reigned over superstition. But magic I did see, and a miracle I did indeed witness. And it was due entirely to the selfless young women who had the very power of the stars and planets at their fingertips. I refer to those sublime, beautiful beings know only as the Sailor Guardians.