“Let me think about that,” he said.

“It’s not a problem for me,” Alvirah said. “I can claim journalistic privilege if I get questioned.”

There is a way that I can’t be forced to reveal her identity, Ferris thought, but the seal of the confessional is not to be used as a convenience.

“Wait a minute, Alvirah. You said this happened just about exactly seven years ago. Are you talking about the night the chalice was stolen? Was that when the baby was left?”

“Yes, apparently it was. When the mother phoned the rectory, an old priest answered. She asked to speak with you, and he told her that the police were there because of some great excitement and that you were outside with them. She thought you’d found the baby already.”

He made up his mind. “Write your story, Alvirah. I’m with you.”

Monsignor Ferris hung up the phone with a sense of wonderment. Was it possible that whoever took the baby might have seen the thief leaving the church and be able to provide at last a clue to his identity? By helping this unfortunate mother, the monsignor might be able to also put to rest the nagging question of what happened to the chalice.

Whenever she went into Bessie’s room, there was no question in Kate Durkin’s mind that something was slightly out of order, but just what it was still eluded her. Exasperated by the nagging sensation, she finally prayed to Saint Anthony for help in finding whatever it was whose whereabouts she couldn’t recall. In the course of her prayer she did admit to him that usually she was asking him for help with something tangible, like her glasses or pocketbook or her one piece of “good” jewelry, the tiny solitaire diamond in a Tiffany setting that had been her mother’s engagement ring.

That time it had taken Saint Anthony two weeks to help her remember that she had hidden it in an empty aspirin bottle when she and Bessie had gone on a senior citizens’ bus trip to Williamsburg.

“You see, Saint Anthony,” she explained as she placed primly folded underwear in an open box on the bed, “I do think that Alvirah just may be right, and that there’s a chance the Bakers managed to fool Bessie and cheat me out of this house. Of course, I’m not sure she’s right, but I am worried, because every time I come in this room and look at that desk with Bessie’s old typewriter, a warning bell goes off in my head.”

Kate noticed a run in a pair of folded stockings. “Poor Bessie,” she said aloud. “Her eyes were going, but she wouldn’t let me take her for new glasses. She said it was a waste of money to buy them when she probably wouldn’t last until Christmas.”

Well, she was right, Kate thought with a sigh as she opened the next drawer and reached for the flannel night-gowns that had been Bessie’s uniform sleepwear. “My stars,” she murmured, “poor Bessie, she must have put this one back without noticing she’d worn it.” She shook her head as she brushed at the streak of powder on the neckline of a pink flowered gown with lace at the collar. “I’ll wash it before I pack it,” she murmured. “Bessie would have liked that.”

She shook her head. No, actually I’m not surprised she tried it, then took it off, she said to herself. She never liked the lace. She said it scratched her neck. What surprises me is that she put it on in the first place.

She still had the gown in her hand when a sound made her turn. Once again, Vic Baker was at the door, observing her. “I’m preparing my sister’s clothing to be sent to charity,” she said sharply. “Unless you and your wife also claim her nightdresses.”

Without answering, Vic turned away. That man frightens me, Kate thought. There’s something scary about him. I’ll be glad to get out of here.

That evening she went to the washing machine and was surprised to see that Bessie’s pink-flowered nightgown was missing from the small pile of laundry she had gathered and left there.

I must be losing my mind, Kate thought. I could have sworn I’d brought it down. Oh well, I must have packed it. Now I’ll have to go through all those darn boxes looking for it.

On Friday, December 11th, Alvirah’s story about the baby left at the rectory door of St. Clement’s seven years ago appeared on the front page of the New York Globe. Almost from the minute the paper hit the stands, the phone calls began to pour into the special number at the rectory that Monsignor Ferris had hastily had installed.

His longtime secretary answered the calls, announcing that she was recording every conversation, and passed on to Monsignor the ones that seemed most likely to warrant further consideration. When he called Alvirah on Monday morning, however, the monsignor sounded glum. “Of the more than two hundred calls we’ve received so far, not one has any merit,” he said. “Unfortunately, a lot of them have been from indignant people saying that they have no sympathy for anyone who left a newborn out in the cold, even if only for a few minutes.”

“Have the police been around?” Alvirah asked.

“The Administration for Children’s Services came by, and the caseworker I talked to was none too happy, believe me. The one thing we can establish is that there’s no record of an unknown infant girl being found dead or abandoned in New York City at that time.”

“1 guess that’s something,” Alvirah said with a sigh. “I’m so disappointed this hasn’t led somewhere. And I thought it was such a good idea.”

“So did I,” Monsignor Ferris said in agreement. “How is the mother doing? Incidentally, I’ve already figured out that she must be that young woman who was around here so often last week.”

“But you still can answer honestly that you don’t know who she is, can’t you?” Alvirah asked with some concern. As usual, she was recording their conversation, just in case Monsignor said something that escaped her at first hearing.

“You don’t have to turn off your mike, Alvirah. I don’t know who she is, and I don’t want to know. By the way, what is this I hear about you hunting for a co-op?”

“My feet are walked down to stumps,” Alvirah admitted. “The Gordons are both nice people, but Monsignor Tom, I’ve got to tell you that while they may he fine at selling real estate, they are not the brightest things God ever put on earth. I swear they can take you into a pokey little dungeon and then tell you it’s charming, and, you know, the crazy part is that they believe it. Then they get all excited when they tell you that instead of the million-two the owner is asking, you can pick it up for only nine hundred thousand dollars.”

“Real estate people have to be enthusiastic about the places they show, Alvirah,” Monsignor Ferris said mildly. “It’s known in some circles as optimism.”

“In their case, try tunnel vision,” Alvirah responded. “Anyhow, I’m off with Eileen to see a place that she says has a spectacular view of Central Park. I can hardly wait. After that I’m going to go visit Kate and try to cheer her up.”

“I wish you would. She keeps reading her copy of Bessie’s will and finding a new way to get her feelings hurt. The latest is that Bessie’s signature was written with such force that the pen almost went through the paper. ‘It’s as if she couldn’t wait to give her house to strangers,’ she said.”

After hanging up, Alvirah sat for twenty minutes, lost in thought. Finally she put on her coat and hat and walked out onto the terrace.

The wind blew against her face, and she shivered, even though she was warmly dressed. I’m a failure, she told herself. I thought I was doing Sondra a favor-now she’s gotten her hopes up, and for nothing. She’ll be even more heartbroken. Her grandfather and boyfriend will be arriving tomorrow, and she has to keep up appearances in front of them as well as practice for the concert on the 23rd.