In the days following my encounter with Mr. Yeats I am coerced to his will. I have gone calling upon Mr. Crowley as proposed. This has proven fruitless as Mr. Crowley appears to be vacationing in Sicily. In truth I was pleased by the revelation of this fact as I hold some apprehension in speaking with the man.
My sojourn to his residence was not without issue. Firstly it is a squalor in the most run down of repair and second it unnerves one. The abode is speaking most kindly a hunters game shack. I was able to locate it with some vague direction from a bookseller I have become acquainted with. It's location not far from my own residency but situation on a forgotten country lane, it's in disrepair. This area is sometimes name New Almaden, sitting far under the shadow of Mount Umanhum in the southern lands. A colony of sorts for artist and outdoors men. It is not without its charm, though Mr. Crowley's residence peerless in countenance. The very ground seems to scrutinize those which come calling. The feeling of watchful eyes ever present, I decided to extricate myself with haste.
No gentleman's gentlemen in employ, I was forced to leave my calling card with a local hills man that hung about the locale. Pallid of look and missing teeth I believed the man to be the local dullard. He further soured his mind with the consumption of white liquor directly from a stoneware jug. The man referred to himself as Sutton and swore to deliver my card for a few coins. The price fair though the messenger seemed unreliable.
I hope these trip not in vain. I do not savor another journey into these wild lands and low persons.
Yours very Truly