I fear Mr. Yeats grows vexed with impatience. My estate is again watched by the formless souls I have so oft mentioned. I fear to venture beyond my door until I venture to visit this Crowley. Which in stating the name sends a cold chill across my countenance. There is the very real worry that it is this Alistair Crowley who directs my haunting. Do I walk as a babe into open jaws? I see that as a very real conclusion to these events.
I have armed myself as a gentleman might. My well stropped shaving razor concealed in the breast pocket of my day coat. A heavy brass knobed cane and a bit of lead added to my gloves. I pray the matter does not devolve into violence. I am not well versed in pugilism, queens bury or otherwise.
Perhaps I am best armed with study. I have found some documentation of this Crowley's travels often wide ranging. He early studies are up to some conjectures but Samuel Liddel Mathers appears to have played a formative part. I believe the pair has been cut in twain by personal disagreement of late. Perhaps that allows an avenue for myself to prosper or find some escape from the predicament.
Hope can be held if none else. I shall summon what courage I have for this meeting with Crowley.
Yours very Truly