"The shadow!"
"Yes. Its shadow—; from this room where I kept it—casting—over—there—its—shadow."
So that was what she meant. The superstition-fostered thing that epitomized his genius to himself. The shadow that he had come to look upon as a sign of luck. But it was nonsense. It wasn't possible; not such rot as that. It was his mind; the big creative mind of him that wrote.
"Have you said all you're going to say?"
For a second her gaze met his and then the heavy lids came down again over those strange green eyes, hiding all expression.
"Yes, Jasper."
He looked out of the window. His eyes stared through the night beyond the two shadowy, drooping willow trees on either side of the wicker gate and over at the house opposite. He caught his breath. The yellow light from the lamp on his desk played across the clear blank of the window blind across the way. The shadow had gone.
"Ellen—" His voice was hoarse. "Ellen!"
"What is it?"
"It's not there, Ellen—; six years; now—; why, Ellen—"