Several blocks south of the rectory, Oliver Hart sat in the office of his palatial home. An early riser, he had already spent a few hours reviewing papers and reports, when there was a knock on the jamb of his opened door.
“Miss Malone is here, as you requested,” said Jean Stark, his housekeeper. An older woman who had been in his employ for many years, she was a bit stout with a cherubic face, gray hair pinned close to her head, good-humored, and loyal.
“Is breakfast ready?” Hart asked.
“Just about,” Jean said, wiping her hands on her white apron,
“What time is it?” Hart asked,
“After eight,” she said. “You’ve probably been working for hours already. Just can’t stay away, can you?”
He stood and stretched. “It’s my passion,” he said. No one knew him as well as Jean Stark. No one ever
