Alone, in a single cheerless cell, caught up in the toils of a strait- jacket, he began to doubt the fact. Maybe Blake was right; maybe they were all right. Maybe he, Kenneth J. Malone, was totally mad.
He told himself firmly that the idea was ridiculous.
But, then, what wasn't?
The minutes ticked slowly by. After a while the three guards came back, opening the door and filing into the room carefully. Malone, feeling more than ever like something in a cocoon, watched them with interest. They shut the door carefully behind them and stood before him.
"Now, then," one of them said. "We're going to take the jacket off, if you promise to be a good boy."
"Sure," Malone said. "And when you take my clothing, look in the pockets."
"The pockets?"
"To find my FBI identification," Malone said wearily. He only half- believed the idea himself, but half a belief, he told himself confusedly, was better than no mind at all. The attendants nodded solemnly.
"Sure we will," one of them said, "if you're a good boy and don't act up rough on us now. Okay?"
Malone nodded. Carefully, two of the attendants began to unbuckle him while the third stood by for reinforcements. Malone made no fuss.