Princeton, Oct 18, 1909
To H. H. Alberts; in New York City:

DEAR HENDRIK, — Since I wrote my last missive several days past 
the light in my life has felt restored to some semblance of 
normalcy. I spent the weekend in relative peace, walking beneath 
the changing foliage of the campus. I had, in short, allowed this 
dreadful business to abate. This evening—O! the grotesque has 
come back upon me.

As the weather turned to bitterness I received a parcel from the 
estate of Charles Webster. In it, among other items, was a 
magnificent chest, lacquered red and bound like something found in 
Melville. Some vestige of my heart felt amiss, but the countenance 
of courage conjured through correspondence carried me clear. With 
key in hand the box exposed.

Alberts, I have no eloquence left in me, no words to adequately 
channel my despair and fright. It contained but one item.

The diary, whole.

Somehow having seen it, hearing myself let out an abstruse groan, 
came to such a realization that my hands were bleeding. Four 
points, you know the ones. There is no explanation that fits the 
rational, natural world. This is work profane that requires 
answers I cannot fathom. Hendrik, I must find them, I must find an 
escape from this trap.

My choice as I see it flows in one of two paths—The masons or 
the woman. You know my heart, my friend. You know which I’ll 
seek first.

I have sent a messenger ahead; for tonight I travel. I will leave 
word here in my absence with instructions to forward any letters. 
Be wary, my friend. There is more at play than painful memory.

J. L.

.