A directory had told me her name was Johanna. Beyond that, and that she was a Prof. Dr med. und spezialarzt für Psychiatrie, I could find out nothing about her.

Ah well, there was the tremor of my hand. No sense in making a lot of that. Nerves, and no wonder. But was it not because of my nerves I had come to Zürich?

This time we did not meet in the sitting-room but in Dr von Haller’s study, which was rather dark and filled with books, and a few pieces of modern statuary that looked pretty good, though I could not examine them closely. Also, there was a piece of old stained glass suspended in the window, which was fine in itself, but displeased me because it seemed affected. Prominent on the desk was a signed photograph of Dr Jung himself. Dr von Haller did not sit behind the desk, but in a chair near my own; I knew this trick, which is supposed to inspire confidence because it sets aside the natural barrier—the desk of the professional person. I had my eye on the doctor this time, and did not mean to let her get away with anything.

She was all smiles.

“No dogfight this time, I hope, Mr Staunton?”

“I hope not. But it is entirely up to you.”

“Entirely? Very well. Before we go further, the report has come from the clinic. You seem to be in depleted general health and a little—nervous, shall we say? What used to be called neurasthenic. And some neuritic pain. Rather underweight. Occasional marked tremor of the hands.”

“Recently, yes. I have been under great stress.”

“Never before?”

“Now and then, when my professional work was heavy.”

“How much have you had to drink this morning?”

“A good sharp snort for breakfast, and another before coming here.”

“Is that usual?”

“It is what I usually take on a day when I am to appear in court.”

“Do you regard this as appearing in court?”

“Certainly not. But as I have already told you several times, I have been under heavy stress, and that is my way of coping with stress. Doubtless you think it a bad way. I think otherwise.”

“I am sure you know all the objections to excessive use of alcohol?”

“I could give you an excellent temperance lecture right now. Indeed, I am a firm believer in temperance for the kind of people who benefit from temperance. I am not one of them. Temperance is a middle-class virtue, and it is not my fate. On the contrary, I am rich and in our time wealth takes a man out of the middle class, unless he made all the money himself. I am the third generation of money in my family. To be rich is to be a special kind of person. Are you rich?”

“By no means.”

“Quick to deny it, I observe. Yet you seem to live in a good professional style, which would be riches to most people in the world. Well—I am rich, though not so rich as people imagine. If you are rich you have to discover your own truths and make a great many of your own rules. The middle-class ethic will not serve you, and if you devote yourself to it, it will trip you up and make a fool of you.”