"It isn't you, Malone," Boyd said. "What isn't me?"
"That's crazy," Boyd said.
"Okay," Malone said. "I'm not crazy. Then will somebody please tell me—"
The little old lady cleared her throat. A silence fell. When it was complete she spoke, and her voice was as sweet and kindly as anything Malone had ever heard.
"You may call me Miss Thompson," she said. "For the present, at any rate. They all do here. It's a pseudonym I have to use."
"A pseudonym?" Malone said.
"You see, Mr. Malone," Miss Wilson began.
Malone stopped her. "Don't talk," he said. "I have to concentrate and if you talk I can barely think." He took off his hat suddenly, and began twisting the brim in his hands. "You understand, don't you?"
The trace of a smile appeared on her face. "I think I do," she said.
"Now," Malone said. "You're Miss Thompson, but not really, because you have to use a pseudonym." He blinked at the little old lady. "Why?"