"My goodness," the little old lady said after a second. "Everything's so confused. Poor Mr. Malone is terribly shaken up by everything." She stood up, still holding her knitting, and went across the room. Before the astonished eyes of the doctor and nurse, and Tom Boyd, she patted the FBI agent on the shoulder. "There, there, Mr. Malone," she said. "It will all be perfectly all right. You'll see." Then she returned to her seat.
Malone opened his eyes. "My God," he said. He closed them again but
they flew open as if of their own accord. He turned to Dr. Harman.
"You called up Boyd here," he said, "and told him that—er—Miss
Thompson was a telepath. How'd you know?"
"It's all right," the little old lady put in from her chair. "I don't mind your calling me Miss Thompson, not right now, anyhow."
"Thanks," Malone said faintly.
Dr. Harman was blinking in a kind of befuddled astonishment. "You mean she really is a—" He stopped and brought his tenor voice to a squeaking halt, regained his professional poise, and began again. "I'd rather not discuss the patient in her presence, Mr. Malone," he said. "If you'll just come into my office—"
"Oh, bosh, Dr. Harman," the little old lady said primly. "I do wish you'd give your own Queen credit for some ability. Goodness knows you think you're smart enough."
"Now, now, Miss Thompson," he said in what was obviously his best
Grade A Choice Government Inspected couchside manner. "Don't—"
"—upset yourself," she finished for him. "Now, really, Doctor. I know what you're going to tell them."
"But Miss Thompson, I—"
"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."