*       *       *       *       *

With a soft thud Totem landed on the table and began to sniff
inquisitively at the bottles, but sprang away as Norman plunged his
hand into the drawer. He felt smaller boxes behind the big one, yanked
suddenly at the whole drawer, so it fell to the floor. In one of the
boxes were bent, rusty, worn bits of iron--horseshoe nails. In the
other were calling-card envelopes, filled with snippings of hair, each
labeled like the bottles, but some of these names he knew. And in
one--fingernail clippings. In the third drawer he drew blank. But the fourth yielded a varied
harvest. Packets of small dried leaves and powdered vegetable
matter--so that was what came from Tansy's herb garden along with
kitchen seasonings? Vervain, vinmoin, devil's snuff. Bits of lodestone,
iron filings clinging to them. Goose quills which spilled quicksilver
when he shook them. Small squares of flannel, the sort that Negro
conjure doctors employed for their "tricken-bags" or "hands." A box of
old silver coins and silver filings--strong protective magic; giving
significance to the coins, all silver, in front of his photograph. But Tansy was so sane--so healthily contemptuous of palmistry,
astrology, numerology and all the other superstitious fads. A
hard-headed New Englander. So well versed, from her work with him, in
the psychological background of superstition and primitive magic. And
yet--

He found himself thumbing through a dog-eared copy of his own
"Parallelisms in Superstition and Neurosis." It looked like the one he
had lost around the house--was it eight years ago? Beside a formula for
conjuration was a marginal notation in Tansy's script: "Doesn't work. Substitute copper filings for brass. Try in dark of moon instead of
full." "Norman--"

Tansy was standing in the doorway, her hand stopped in the moment of
drawing off the little half hat of deep-rose felt that matched her trim
dress. Never before had he had such a feeling that a human face was only an
arbitrary arrangement of curved surfaces and colors. The tapering
chin--an ellipsoid. The full lips--a complex arrangement of cycloids
and other curves. The eyes--white spheres inscribed with gray-green
circles centered with black. Without familiarity or significance. And
yet, in the same instant he felt that it was desperately important that
he spy out a significance. For a faint distortion of those angles and
curves--a distortion so subtle as to be almost indiscernible--might
signify ... yes, why not say it?... insanity. The ghost of a smile curved Tansy's lips, and familiarity flooded back
into her face. "So you've found out," she sighed. And although it seemed incredible,
he thought she sighed with relief. For a moment he stood there confused, like a district attorney caught
arranging evidence. Then he began his cross-examination. "It all started so foolishly," she was saying soon. "Just before you
came to Hempnell. I felt it was tremendously important that you get
the appointment and just to relieve my nerves--no other reason--I did
silly things. Put mild curses on the two other applicants, to confuse
their thoughts during the interviews. I got the curses from your notes. I surrounded you with a web of protective magic, charmed the sociology
faculty to make them regard you favorably. "Well, you got the job, and I forgot all about my stupid private joke. "Then, when your first book was at the publishers--you remember, Norm,
in 1930--I tried again. We were so sure it would be rejected. I was
planning to tell you all about my idiotic conjures as soon as it came
back, so at least we'd have a laugh. But it was accepted. And I didn't
tell you. "Then in 1931, when you had pneumonia. I didn't want to, because it was
too serious this time, but you got worse and I couldn't help myself. And you got well. "That was the real beginning. Not that I was certain--I've never been
certain--but I didn't dare take chances. Careers hang on such little
strings, and Hempnell can be so vindictive. You know. "But I wasn't superstitious. No, I wasn't! At least, I didn't have what
you'd call the superstitious feeling. In a twisted logical way, I was
trying to be empirical. I judged everything by results, step by step. "And of course, when I say empirical, I don't mean experimental. I
didn't dare to omit any charms as a test, because I was too afraid of
something going wrong. You can't be experimental about someone you
love, any more than a sane sociologist would induce fascism in his own
country just to study the consequences." He listened, his mind working like a telephone exchange during an
emergency, catching a thousand hidden connections in trivial memories
of his life and Tansy's. Whenever she paused, he had a question to
hammer at her. "Those mirror decorations on your dresses, and belts, and
handbags--why?" She nodded, tiredly. "Yes, that's it. To ward off evil spirits, by
reflecting them. I got the idea from Tibetan devil masks. Yes, and the
reason I always use hooks and eyes is--you've guessed--to catch evil
spirits that try to get at me." *       *       *       *       *

The room was dark by the time Tansy had finished the catalogue of her
activities at Hempnell, and said, "So you see, I've never been sure. I've wanted to stop, but there's been too much at stake. It always
worked--or did as soon as I made the proper corrections in the charms. I've wanted to tell you, but I've never dared. Now that you know, I'm
glad." The voice was very tired now. Then, in the darkness he began his argument. It was the old, old
argument of science against primitive ignorance, but he brought it home
to her with careful persuasiveness. The argument which starts out with
a demonstration that superstition is only mistaken empiricism, and ends
with psychoanalysis. "Didn't it really begin much earlier than Hempnell, Tansy?" he asked at
one point. "I mean, the seeds of it?" "No. Oh, I don't know. Perhaps. I've childhood memories of dark
moments. Suspicions. Queer things people could do. Hints from I don't
know where. But nothing certain. I just can't remember. I don't know." Only once did the tired voice grow vehement. "But I tell you I never tried to kill, or even to injure in a physical
way! Never! Only to confuse or hinder people when they were working
against you. It's terribly important that you understand this, Norman. Nine tenths of my magic was purely protective. To ward off evil." He felt pettishly exasperated at this answer. What difference did it
make whether or not she had tried to kill? It was all equally nonsense. And why should she harp on her efforts to protect him, as if he were
some sort of incompetent? For a moment it occurred to him that, from
one point of view, he _had_ been very lucky in his career. He
abruptly put aside this stray thought, along with his fit of impatience. At another time she used a similar argument. "I never tried for
anything really big. Like your inheriting a million dollars.