The family industrial plants that boomed during the war had provided him with the best education money could buy and potentially a life of ease. But at his father's death he closed them down, defying his advisors in the vow never again to foster implements of destruction. All war is fratricide. It was Adlai Stevenson who said it, Thorn who quoted it, and in the interest of peace the Thorn fortune multiplied. Real estate holdings evolved into construction, Thorn becoming passionately involved with improving ghetto areas and dispensing small business loans to the capable and needy. It was this that made him unique; a gift for accumulating money and a sense of responsibility for those who had none. The estimate that his personal wealth was close to a hundred million dollars was unverifiable, and in truth Thorn himself did not know. To account would have meant to pause, and Jeremy Thorn was in constant motion.

As the taxi stopped short in front of the darkened Ospedale Generale, Father Spilletto gazed down from his second-floor office window, knowing in an instant that the man bounding out was Jeremy Thorn. The rugged jaw and graying temples were familiar from newspaper photos, the attire and gait seemed familiar as well. It was satisfying that Thorn looked every inch what he should. Plainly, the choice had been right. Drawing his robes around him, the priest stood, his enormous form dwarfing the small wooden desk before him, and, without expression, moved quietly to the door. Thorn's footsteps could already be heard below, entering, echoing as they moved vigorously across the bare, tiled floor.

"Mr. Thorn?"

Below him, Thorn turned, his eyes searching upward in the darkness.

"Yes?"

"I am Father Spilletto. I sent you ..."

"Yes. I got your telegram. I left as soon as I could."

The priest moved into a shaft of light and started down the stairwell. There was something in his movement, the silence that surrounded it, that signaled all was not well.

"Is ... the child born?" asked Thorn.

"Yes."

"My wife . . . ?"

"She is resting."

The priest was at the base of the stairwell now and his eyes met Thorn's, trying to prepare him, to soften the blow.

"Something's gone wrong," said Thorn.

"The child is dead."

There came an awesome silence, the empty tiled corridors seeming to ring with it, as Thorn stood paralyzed, as though hit by a body blow.

"It breathed but a moment," whispered the priest, "then breathed no more."

The priest watched, unmoving, as the man before him walked stiffly to a bench and sat for a long moment, then bowed his head and wept. The sound of weeping echoed through the corridors, and the priest waited his turn to speak.

"Your wife is safe," he said, "but she will be unable to bear another child."

"It will destroy her," whispered Thorn.

"You could adopt."

"She wanted her own."