“Oh, forget it, Father. It’s for the boy’s own good, but if it goes against your conscience—”

“Sit down!” He paused. “You said your son’s name is Duff?”

I nodded. “Short for Duffin.”

“General Duffin Caine was a big man in these parts.”

“So I’m told. He was Duff’s great-­great-­grandfather.”

“And you’re living in Miss Hannah Caine’s place?”

“That’s right.”

He relit his cigar. It wasn’t more than an inch long now. “If I ever talked to your son, he didn’t identify himself. Describe him.”

“Well his hair is on the blond side. He’s fairly tall, about six feet, but rather frail looking . . . sometimes . . .”

“What do you mean sometimes?”

“Just that sometimes lately he seems stronger. Also, he wears glasses.”

“Sometimes?”

“Occasionally lately it seems he doesn’t.”

“I think I may have met your son, but he didn’t tell me any of his problems.”

“When was this?”

“One afternoon a couple of weeks ago. If he’s the lad I’m thinking of, he was in the church. He was standing in front of the statue of Our Lady.”

“I thought you said you kept the church locked.”

“It was after that we started locking it.”

“What was Duff doing? I can’t believe he was praying.”

“No.” Father Fogarty took a final regretful puff and then squashed the soggy cigar stub in an ashtray. “He was urinating.”

“Oh, my God, it couldn’t have been Duff!”

“Well, he looked like the boy you’ve described when Father Jackson caught him outside. When I saw him in the church, he seemed heavier and older. I was at the main altar, reading my office, when I heard some women yelling over by the shrine. It’s in a kind of apse, you see, off to the left. I rushed over there and saw him. He turned his head and grinned at me, but kept on doing what he was doing until he was finished. Then he rushed at me, almost knocking me over, and ran down the aisle. He would’ve gotten away, but I yelled and Father Jackson and a couple of men of the parish caught him outside.”

“Did you question him?”

“Yes, but he denied doing what I had plainly seen him doing. He even continued to deny it after we marched him back into the church and showed him the puddle on the floor. He just kept saying that he hadn’t done it, that it had been somebody else.”

“Did you call the police?”

“No. Father Jackson wanted to, but I couldn’t see that it would do any good. I thought that having the boy arrested would just mean more publicity for us. I knew he wasn’t from around here and he promised not to come back again, so we let him go.”