‘For six years,' Rugge said to it. ‘And I'd go six more, if necessary.'

Amanda Conners began to cry silently into her handkerchief.

As Dr Superb, escorted by both the plainclothes men and the uniformed San Francisco police, was led to the waiting patrol car, the crowd once again gave a meagre cheer of encouragement. But for the most part, Superb observed, they were older people. Remnants from earlier times when psychoanalysis was respected; like himself, part of another era entirely. He wished there were a few youths to be seen, but there were not.

At the police station the thin-faced man in the heavy overcoat, smoking the Bela King handmade Philippine cigar, glanced out the window with flat, cold eyes, consulted his watch, then paced restlessly.

He was just putting out his cigar and preparing to light another when he caught sight of the police car. At once he hurried outside on to the loading platform where the police were preparing to begin processing of the individual in question. ‘Doctor,' he said. ‘I'm Wilder Pembroke. I'd like to talk to you a moment.' He nodded to the police and they fell back, leaving Dr Superb unhanded. ‘Come inside; I've got temporary use of a room on the second floor. This won't take long.'

‘You're not one of the City Police,' Dr Superb said eyeing him acutely. ‘Or perhaps you're NP.' He looked uneasy, now. ‘Yes, that must be it.'

Pembroke, as he led the way to the elevator, said, ‘Just consider me an interested party.' He lowered his voice as a group of police officials passed them. ‘Interested in seeing you back in your office, treating your patients.'

‘You have authority to do that?' Superb asked.