And the imprisoned thoughts buzzed violently, like bees seeking escape from a stopped-up hive. "Norman," Tansy said abruptly, without looking up at him, "you found and burned that hand in your watch charm, didn't you?" He thought a moment. "Yes, I did," he said lightly. "I'd really forgotten about it. There were so many." He turned a page, and then another. Thunder crackled loudly, and rain began to patter on the roof. "Norman, you burned the diary, too, didn't you? You were right in doing it, of course. I held it back, because it didn't contain actual curses, only the formulas for them. So in a twisted illogical way I pretended it didn't count." That was harder to answer. He felt as if he were playing a guessing game and Tansy was getting perilously "warm." The thoughts in the sphere buzzed triumphantly, "Mrs. Gunnison has the diary. Now she knows all of Tansy's protective charms." But he answered, "Yes, I did burn it. I'm sorry, but I thought--" "Of course," Tansy cut in. "You were quite right." Her fingers played more rapidly with the cord. She did not look down at it. Lightning showed flashes of pale street and trees through the window. The patter of rain grew in volume. But through it he fancied he heard the scrunch of paws on the drive. Ridiculous--rain and wind were making too much noise. His eyes were attracted to the pattern of knots Tansy's restless fingers were weaving. They were complicated, strong-looking knots which fell apart at a single cunning jerk, reminding him of how Tansy had studied assiduously the cat's cradles of the Indians. It also recalled to his mind how knots are used by the primitives to tie and loose the winds, to hold loved ones, to noose far-off enemies, to inhibit or free all manner of physical and physiological processes. And how the Fates weave destinies like threads. He found something very pleasing in the pattern of the knots and the rhythmic movements which produced them. They seemed to signify security. Until they fell apart. "Norman"--the voice was preoccupied and rapid--"what was that snapshot you asked Hulda Gunnison to show you last night?" He felt a brief flurry of panic. She was getting "very warm." This was the stage of the game where you cried out, "Hot!" And then he heard the heavy, unyielding _clump-clump_ on the boards of the front porch, seeming to move questingly along the wall. The sphere of alien thoughts began to exert an irresistible centrifugal pressure. He felt his sanity being smothered between the assaults from without and within. Very deliberately he shaved off the ash of his cigarette against the edge of the tray. "It was of the roof of Estrey," he said casually. "Gunnison told me she'd taken a number of pictures of that sort and I wanted to see a sample."