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the clinic, a Vaudois by birth, a few years older than Dick,
met him at the tram stop. He had a dark and magnificent as-
pect of Cagliostro about him, contrasted with holy eyes; he
was the third of the Gregoroviuses—his grandfather had in-
structed Krapaelin when psychiatry was just emerging from
the darkness of all time. In personality he was proud, fi-
ery, and sheeplike—he fancied himself as a hypnotist. If the
original genius of the family had grown a little tired, Franz
would without doubt become a fine clinician.
On the way to the clinic he said: ‘Tell me of your experi-
ences in the war. Are you changed like the rest? You have
the same stupid and unaging American face, except I know
you’re not stupid, Dick.’
‘I didn’t see any of the war—you must have gathered that
from my letters, Franz.’
‘That doesn’t matter—we have some shell-shocks who
merely heard an air raid from a distance. We have a few
who merely read newspapers.’
‘It sounds like nonsense to me.’
‘Maybe it is, Dick. But, we’re a rich person’s clinic—we
don’t use the word nonsense. Frankly, did you come down
to see me or to see that girl?’
They looked sideways at each other; Franz smiled enig-
matically.
‘Naturally I saw all the first letters,’ he said in his offi-
cial basso. ‘When the change began, delicacy prevented me
from opening any more. Really it had become your case.’
‘Then she’s well?’ Dick demanded.
‘Perfectly well, I have charge of her, in fact I have charge

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