My concern of evenings past has not abated. I find myself confined to my abode, this missive delivered by my gentleman's gentleman Tilkinton. The phantasmagoria written within my previous letter continues. I see their eyes always upon my estate. I can only conjectures what should happen if they accosted my person.
I embark upon a dark journey for my own safety, perhaps in error. I have found myself a babe in the wood; but am determined it will not be so. I continue to pursue dark and dusty tomes, scouring for some sort of aid. Perhaps only an initiate, I find I am drawn in by these works. Often I am devouring the text in long solemn hours. I pray I find some reason to hope in the pages. I fear I am doomed without.
My studies have established a milieu in which I believe both Mr. Yeats and Crowley are working. I believe both are stitched up under the tutelage of Mather. I have writing this name in the past, it weights heavy in my studies. I a lone seeker falter against two both mentored at the apron strings of this Mathers. Odds surly have been stacked against me in this task.
I am confounded by your collective silence, though perhaps I reach to those already under dark sway. I pray for your sound minds and words.
Yours very truly