"You didn't honestly think I _was_ a telepath," the little old lady said. "Heavens, we know that. And you're going to tell them how I used to say I could read minds--oh, years and years ago. And because of that you thought it might be worthwhile to tell the FBI about me-- which wasn't very kind of you, Doctor, before you know anything about why they wanted somebody like me." "Now, now, Miss Thompson," Miss Wilson said, walking across the room to put an arm around the little old lady's shoulder. Malone wished for one brief second that he were the little old lady. Maybe if he were a patient in the hospital he would get the same treatment. He wondered if he could possibly work such a deal. Then he wondered if it would be worthwhile, being nuts. But of course it would. He was nuts anyhow, wasn't he? Sure, he told himself. They were all nuts. "Nobody's going to hurt you," Miss Wilson said. She was talking to the old lady. "You'll be perfectly all right and you don't have to worry about a thing." "Oh, yes, dear, I know that," the little old lady said. "You only want to help me, dear. You're so kind. And these FBI men really don't mean any harm. But Doctor Harman didn't know that. He just thinks I'm crazy and that's all." "Please, Miss Thompson--" Dr. Harman began. "Just crazy, that's all," the little old lady said. She turned away for a second and nobody said anything. Then she turned back. "Do you all know what he's thinking now?" she said. Dr. Harman turned a dull purple, but she ignored him. "He's wondering why I didn't take the trouble to prove all this to you years ago. And besides that, he's thinking about--" "Miss Thompson," Dr. Harman said. His bedside manner had cracked through and his voice was harsh and strained. "Please." "Oh, all right," she said, a little petulantly. "If you want to keep all that private." Malone broke in suddenly, fascinated. "Why didn't you prove you were telepathic before now?" he said. The little old lady smiled at him. "Why, because you wouldn't have believed me," she said. She dropped her knitting neatly in her lap and folded her hands over it. '"None of you _wanted_ to believe me," she said, and sniffed. Miss Wilson moved nervously and she looked up. "And don't tell me it's going to be all right. I know it's going to be all right. I'm going to make sure of that." Malone felt a sudden chill. But it was obvious, he told himself, that the little old lady didn't mean what she was saying. She smiled at him again, and her smile was as sweet and guileless as the smile on the face of his very own sainted grandmother. Not that Malone remembered his grandmother; she had died before he'd been born. But if he'd had a grandmother, and if he'd remembered her, he was sure she would have had the same sweet smile. So she couldn't have meant what she'd said. Would Malone's own grandmother make things difficult for him? The very idea was ridiculous.