“I think my staff feel they perform miracles here daily,” he said with the ghost of a smile.

He does have a sense of humor then, Jean thought. She hadn’t intended to give out any more details of the reason for her interest in St. Cecilia’s than was absolutely necessary, but his lack of curiosity made her talkative.

“A female patient claims to have conceived a child here. Spontaneously, as it were.”

She had his attention at last.

“I should think that unlikely. Other explanations come to mind.”

“Such as?”

“The woman is either deluded or dishonest.”

How ready people are to think a woman they have never met is a liar, thought Jean.

“And yet she seems genuine.”

“Dishonest people often do. Are you looking for evidence to discredit her?”

“If it exists, certainly.”

“Well, I hope you find it. I don’t like the thought of this place becoming a shrine.”

Jean laughed. “I must admit, I hadn’t considered that as a by-product.”

“We will be besieged by virgins,” he said with a shudder.

You probably think I am one, Jean thought.

“This person here,” she said, pointing to a photograph in which a middle-aged woman in a dark dress and white bonnet was seated in the center of a row of nurses in pale uniforms and starched aprons, “must be the head nurse.” She appeared, similarly attired, in several other pictures. “Do you mind?”

Jean lifted the print carefully from its fragile, tissue-thin corners and turned it over. As she had hoped, some dutiful record keeper had written on the back in brownish ink: L to R: J. Soames, R. Forbes, M. Cox, A. Halfyard, M. Smith, D. Baker, V. (Pegs) Austin, 1946.

“A. Halfyard,” said Jean. “That must be her.”

“That’s a blessing,” said the headmaster, taking the picture from her and replacing it in the album. “There can’t be many of those in the telephone directory. Miss Trevor will have one in her office.”

The secretary was talking on the telephone and simultaneously cranking the handle of a mimeograph in full cry when Jean knocked on the open door. She summoned Jean in with a jerk of her chin, without pausing.

“I suppose we could manage modest expenses,” she was saying. “Though the other candidates are coming from farther afield and they haven’t asked.”

The air was heavy with the smell of spirit; Jean could feel it stinging her eyes. Miss Trevor continued to belabor the mimeograph until the last sheet of blurry violet type had flopped out into the tray. Her desk was buried under cliffs of clutter—books, ledgers, manila folders, box files. And yet in spite of this, at the words, “Yes, all right, let me take your details,” she flailed helplessly for want of something to write with or on until Jean felt obliged to offer her own notebook and pen.

Having dispatched the caller and straightened her skirt, which had become rather twisted during her exertions, she gave Jean her full attention.