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. * * * * *