Feeling
as sound as he did this morning, it was impossible for him to entertain
any ideas of serious mental derangement. No, what had happened was just
one of those queer, inexplicable spasms of irrationality that can seize
the sanest people, perhaps because they _are_ so sane--a kind of
discharge of long-inhibited morbidity. Too bad, though, that he had
bothered Tansy with it. Especially when her own nervous system had been
in a shaky state. Poor kid, she had been working hard to cheer him up,
last night in particular. It ought to have been the other way around. Well, he would make it up to her. He shaved leisurely and with enjoyment. The razor behaved perfectly. As he finished dressing, a doubt struck him. Again he searched his
mind, closing his eyes like a man listening for an almost inaudible
sound. Nothing. Not the faintest trace. He was whistling as he pushed into the kitchen. *       *       *       *       *

There was no sign of breakfast. Beside the sink were some unwashed
glasses, empty bottles, and an ice tray filled with tepid water. "Tansy," he called. "Tansy!" He walked through the house, with the vague apprehension that she might
have passed out before getting to bed. They'd been drinking like fish. He went out to the garage and made sure that the car was still there. Maybe she'd walked to the grocer's to get something for breakfast. Unconsciously he began to hurry as he went back into the house. This time when he looked in the study, he noticed the upset ink bottle,
and the scrap of paper just beside it on the edge of the drying black
pool. The message had come within an inch of being engulfed. It was a hurried scrawl--twice the pen point had gouged through the
paper--and it broke off twice in the middle of a sentence, but it was
undeniably in Tansy's handwriting. For a moment it isn't watching me. I didn't realize it would be too
    strong for me. _Not two weeks not--two days!_ Don't try to follow
    me. Only chance is to do exactly what I tell you. Take four lengths
    of four-inch white cord and--

His eyes traced the smear going out from the black pool and ending
in the indistinct print of a hand, and involuntarily his imagination
recreated the scene. She had been scribbling desperately, stealing
quick glances over her shoulder. Then _it_ had awakened to what
she was doing and had roughly struck the pen out of her hand, and
shaken her. He recalled the grip of those huge horny hands, and winced. And then ... then she had gotten together her things, very quietly
although there was little chance of him awakening, and she had walked
out of the house and down the street. And if she met anyone she knew,
she had talked to them gayly, and laughed, because it was behind her,
waiting for any false move, any attempt at escape. So she had gone. Where? Anywhere. Wherever the narrow corridor ended for _her_, no
longer two weeks but only two days long. In a flash of insight he understood _why_. If he hadn't been drunk
last night, he would have guessed. One of the oldest and best-established types of conjuration in the
world. Transference of evils. Like the medicine man who conjures
sickness into a stone, or into an enemy, or into himself--because he is
better able to combat it--she had taken his curse upon herself. Shared
his drink last night, shared his food. Used a thousand devices to bring
them close together. It was all so obvious! He racked his brain to
recover those last words she had said to him. "Everything you have is
_mine_? All you have is _mine_?" She had meant the curse. And he had said, "Yes." And then, without her formulas and her Protective Screen, the curse had
proved too strong for her. He wanted to run out into the street, to shout her name. But the pool of ink had dried to glistening black flakes all around the
margin. It must have been spilled hours ago--as early as last midnight
even. He beat his temple in a rage at his own impotence. This mood did not last long. His anxiety persisted, grew stronger. But
the supernatural terror rapidly died away. It could not sustain itself
now that he no longer experienced it directly. Even the argument that
he had lost his sensitivity only because the curse was now directed
at her, did not convince him for a moment. No, there was nothing
supernatural in this--no guardian except a figment of his and her
neurotic nerves. What _had_ happened was that he had suggested
all this to her. He had forced upon her the products of his own morbid
imagination. Undoubtedly he had babbled everything to her while he
was drunk. And it had worked on her suggestible nature--she already
believed in witchcraft--until she had got the idea of transferring his
curse to herself, and had convinced herself that the transference had
actually occurred. And then gone off, God knew where! And that was bad enough. *       *       *       *       *

There was a light chime from the front door. He extracted a letter from
the mailbox, ripped it open. It was addressed with a soft pencil, and
the graphite had smeared. But he knew the handwriting. The message was so jerky and uneven that he was some time reading it. It began and ended in the middle of a sentence. --and a length of gut, a bit of platinum or iridium, a piece of
    lodestone, a phonograph needle that has only played Scriabin's
    "Ninth Sonata." Then tie--

That was all. A continuation of the first message, with its bizarre
formula. Had she really convinced herself that there was a guardian
watching her, and that she could only communicate during the infrequent
moments when its attention was elsewhere? He knew the answer. When you
had an obsession you could convince yourself of anything. He looked at the postmark. He recognized the name of a town several
miles east of Hempnell. He could not think of a soul they knew there,
or anything else about the town. His first impulse was to get out the
car and rush over. But what could he do when he got there? The phone was ringing. It was Evelyn Sawtelle. "Is that you, Norman? Please ask Tansy to come to the phone. I wish to
speak to her." The question was rapped out with precision, as if its wording had been
carefully planned. "I'm sorry, but she isn't in." Evelyn Sawtelle did not sound surprised at the answer--her second
question came too quickly. "Where is she then? I must get in touch with
her." He thought. "She's out in the country," he said, "visiting some friends
of ours. Is there something I can tell her?" "No, I wish to speak to Tansy. What is your friend's number?" "They don't have a phone!" he said angrily. "No? Well, it's nothing of importance." She sounded oddly pleased, as
if his anger had given her satisfaction. "I'll call again. I must hurry
now. Hervey is so busy with his new responsibilities. Good-by." He replaced the phone. Now, why the devil--Suddenly an explanation
occurred to him.