“As a pen moves in writing?”
“Yes. As a pen moves in writing.”
“May I take the letter?”
She handed it to me.
“May I light a candle?”
She drew her veil more closely over her face, and bowed in silence.
I lighted the candle on the mantel-piece, and looked for the writing.
There, on the blank space in the letter, as I had seen it before on the blank space in the sketch-book—there were the written words which the ghostly Presence had left behind it; arranged once more in two lines, as I copy them here:
At the month’s end, In the shadow of Saint Paul’s.