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wearily recited the occurrence of the anomalies from beginning to end, leaving out all reference to Magruder, of course.
    “All you have said is a matter of serious concern, and one we should well pay attention to,” said Sprock. “But it has nothing to do with your presumption in the matter of advising Mr. Tremayne.”
    “I have said that the policy applications I referred to are of the same class as those previously mentioned; they will also be followed by quick claims.”
    Sprock rose and came around the side of his desk. “Mr. Bascomb, that is a thing you could not possibly know!”
    Suddenly an old, latent fury seemed to spring alive inside Bascomb’s mind. What was this shriveled idiot trying to tell him? He knew—he knew beyond all question of doubt that what he said was true. It didn’t matter that Magruder had predicted it. Magruder had nothing to do with this positive, insistent knowledge that burned in his mind.
    He knew, in and of himself, that those policies would turn out as he said. And Sprock telling him he couldn’t possibly know—
    As suddenly as it had arisen, the rage died, and Bascomb found himself smiling at the little man and sensing a strange pity for him.
    “I have discovered something new,” said Bascomb quietly. “It—it is a recent statistical development on which I have been working for some time. It is a formula that enables me to predict when we are due for a run of policies such as this. They occur every once in a while, you know; my formula tells me that this is ready to occur again.”
    “I don’t believe it!” snapped Sprock; “such a thing is impossible. Why if it were true, it would—it would change the entire aspect of our business. I warn you, Bascomb— and this is the last and only time I will do so—I want no repetition of this kind of occurrence. I will not tolerate it in my organization. A repetition means a complete and permanent severance of your relations with this Company. Do I make myself clear, Bascomb?”
    “Yes,” said Bascomb. He turned to the door as Sprock dismissed him. But he turned, with his hand on the knob. “I would suggest, however,” he said, “that you get a list of those applications from Mr. Tremayne. Within thirty days there will be claims on every one of them!”
    Back at his desk, Charles Bascomb felt a tremendous sense of release, quite unlike anything he had ever experienced before—an elation at having stood up to Sprock. He had a momentary feeling of not being afraid of Sprock any more—or of New England—or of any other force that might be able,to shake him from his niche.
    It died in a renewed consternation over what he’d said. Why on Earth had he indented the lie he told Sprock, the lie about a mathematical invention that would predict unfavorable runs? Well, there had to be something to cover his previous statement about knowing positively there would be claims on these particular policies.
    And then the full force of what he’d said hit him. He’d said he knew. And it was true. He wasn’t just taking Magruder’s word for it, he knew. As if trapped in a comer by a persistent enemy, he tried to evade this sudden fact, to turn his back upon it and refuse to admit all its appalling implications.
    But escape was impossible. He sat there, feeling stunned, then slowly embraced the unwanted knowledge.
    This was it.
    This was intuition.
    It was the way Sarah felt, he supposed—only she felt it on almost any connection. No wonder she thought him a blockhead when he couldn’t understand how she could be so sure of a wholly illogical assumption!
    It was the way the policyholders felt, too, the ones he’d interviewed. And they had been right.
    It was impossible to take up the thread of his work as he had planned it before receiving Sprock’s call. He got up and went over to the unabridged dictionary open on its stand in the comer by the window. He turned the pages to intuition.
    "Perceived by the mind immediately, or without