]

She stopped pouring, set the percolator down and looked at me
solemnly. "In two weeks, about."

"Hm-m-m," I said. "But it won't kill him?"

She picked up her cup and led me back to the sofa, sitting down before
she answered me. "Not exactly," she said. "I don't want to talk about
it."

That's what all the witches say when you try to get them to do any
life-lining. "Have you told me all that you know?" I demanded.

Then she did a funny thing. She got up, went to the chest against the
wall where her purse lay, and got out her glasses, racking them up on
her long thin nose. She looked at me closely. "No, not all I know. And
I don't aim to," she said. She made no move to come back to sit with
me.

"I'm sorry," I said, "but this is Lodge business. I know that you're
not a member yet, but you soon will be, and you might as well learn
right now that you are subject to Lodge discipline. Tell me what you
know."

"No!"

They all have to learn it sooner or later. I rammed a good stiff lift
in under her heart, and saw her knees buckle. She gasped, and then the
lights went out.

Pheola was beside me on the loveseat when my consciousness started to
straggle back. Her hands were soothing my brow. That isn't where it
had hurt. She had struck back, only twice as hard as I had managed.
Fool around with somebody who had a good grip on my nervous system,
would I? I was lucky to be alive.

"Oh, darlin'!" she gasped, as my eyes opened. "You hurt me so, and
before I knew it I had done it to you! Forgive me, Billy Joe! I'll
_never_ do that again!"

"Better not," I groaned, trying to get my breath. "They'll carry me
out in a pine box next time."

"I am so sorry," she said, beginning to cry.

"Then tell me," I said. "What else do you know?"

That only made her cry harder, but between sobs she got it out. "He
won't die the first time," she said sniffling. "But the _next_ attack
will kill him."

"Soon after the first?"

She nodded. "A couple days," she said. "I wish you hadn't made me tell
it."

"Good thing I did," I growled. "You're as nutty as a fruitcake.
Maragon won't die. I've got it on good authority."

"I'm _right_!" she insisted.

* * * * *

I took it to Maragon the next morning. The city was shrouded in a low
layer of cloud, and his glassed-in penthouse office was gloomy with
the morning. He motioned me to sit down. I dragged one of his Bank of
England chairs through the ankl