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'Oh yes, it was delivered by hand last night.'

'I thought that might save time.' Miller hesitated and said carefully, 'I did ask that Father da Costa should be present.'

'He's waiting in the next room,' Monsignor O'Halloran filled his pipe from an old pouch methodically. 'I thought I'd hear what the prosecution had to say first.'

Miller said, 'You've got my letter. It says it all there.'

'And what do you expect me to do?'

'Make Father da Costa see reason. He must help us in this matter. He must identify this man.'

'If your supposition is correct, the Pope himself couldn't do that, Superintendent,' Monsignor O'Halloran said calmly. 'The secret nature of the confessional is absolute.'

'In a case like this?' Miller said angrily. 'That's ridiculous and you know it.'

Inspector Fitzgerald put a restraining hand on his arm, but Monsignor O'Halloran wasn't in the least put out. He said mildly, 'To a Protestant or a Jew, or indeed to anyone outside the Catholic religion, the whole idea of confession must seem absurd. An anachronism that has no place in this modern world. Wouldn't you agree, Superintendent?'

'When I consider this present situation then I must say I do,' Miller told him.

'The Church has always believed confession to be good for the soul. Sin is a terrible burden and through the medium of confession people are able to relieve themselves of that burden and start again.'

Miller stirred impatiently, but O'Halloran continued in the same calm voice. He was extraordinarily persuasive. 'For a confession to be any good as therapy, it has to be told to someone, which is where the priest comes in. Only as God's intermediary, of course, and one can only expect people to unburden themselves when they know that what they say is absolutely private and will never be revealed on any account.'

'But this is murder we're talking about, Monsignor,' Miller said. 'Murder and corruption of a kind that would horrify you.'

'I doubt that.' Monsignor O'Halloran laughed shortly and put another match to his pipe. 'It's a strange thing, but in spite of the fact that most people believe priests to be somehow cut off from the real world, I come face to face with more human wickedness in a week than the average man does in a lifetime.'

'Very interesting,' Miller said, 'but I fail to see the relevance.'

'Very well, Superintendent. Try this. During the last war, I was in a German prisoner-of-war camp where escape plans were constantly being frustrated because somebody was keeping the German authorities informed of every move that was made.' He heaved himself up out of his seat and hobbled to the window. 'I knew who it was, knew for months. The man involved told me at confession.'

'And you did nothing?' Miller was genuinely shocked.

'Oh, I tried to reason with him privately, but there was nothing else I could do. No possibility of my even hinting to the others what was going on.' He turned, a weary smile on his face. 'You think it easy carrying that kind of burden, Superintendent? Let me tell you something. I hear confessions at the cathedral regularly. Not a week passes that someone doesn't tell me something for which they could be criminally liable at law.'

Miller stood up. 'So you can't help us then?'

'I didn't say that. I'll talk to him. Hear what he has to say. Would you wait outside for a few minutes?'

'Certainly, but I'd like to see him again in your presence before we leave.'

'As you wish.'

They went out and Monsignor O'Halloran pressed a button on the intercom on his desk. 'I'll see Father da Costa now.'

It was a bad business and he felt unaccountably depressed in a personal sense. He stared out at the rainswept garden wondering what on earth he was going to say to da Costa and then the door clicked open behind him.

He turned slowly as da Costa crossed to the desk. 'Michael, what on earth am I going to do with you?'

'I'm sorry, Monsignor,' Father da Costa said formally, 'but this situation was not of my choosing.'

'They never are,' Monsignor O'Halloran said wryly as he sat down. 'Is it true what they