“The old boy must have been figuring his bank account,” said Queen. “He loved the sight of his own name, didn’t he?” “That’s not quite fair to Field,” protested Ellery. “When a man is sitting idle, waiting for something to happen—as he will when he is in a theatre before the performance begins—one of his most natural actions is to scribble his initials or his name on the handiest object. In a theatre the handiest object would be the program.... The writing of one’s own name is fundamental in psychology. So perhaps Field wasn’t as egotistical as this seems to make him.” “It’s a small point,” said the Inspector, studying the scrawls with a frown. “Perhaps,” returned Ellery. “But to get back to a more pressing matter.—I don’t agree with you when you say the ‘50,000’ probably refers to Field’s bank account. When a man jots down his bank balance he will not do it in such round numbers.” “We can prove or disprove that easily enough,” retorted the Inspector, picking up a telephone. He asked the police operator to get him the number of Field’s office. When he had spoken to Oscar Lewin for some time, he turned back to Ellery with a crestfallen air. “You were right, El,” he said. “Field had an amazingly small personal account. All his accounts balance to less than six thousand dollars. And this despite the fact that he frequently made deposits of ten and fifteen thousand dollars. Lewin himself was surprised. He hadn’t known, he said, how Field’s personal finances stood until I asked him to look the matter up.... I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts Field played the stock market or the horses!” “I’m not particularly overwhelmed by the news,” remarked Ellery. “It points to the probable reason for the ‘50,000’ on the program. That number not only represents dollars, but more than that—it indicates a business deal in which the stakes were fifty thousand! Not a bad night’s work, if he had come out of it alive.” “How about the other two numbers?” asked Queen. “I’m going to mull over them a bit,” replied Ellery, subsiding in his chair. “I _would_ like to know what the business deal was that involved such a large financial consideration,” he added, absently polishing his pince-nez. “Whatever the business deal was,” said the Inspector sententiously, “you may be sure, my son, it was an evil one.” “An evil one?” inquired Ellery in a serious tone. “Money’s the root of all evil,” retorted the Inspector with a grin. Ellery’s tone did not change. “Not only the root, dad—but the fruit, too.” “Another quotation?” mocked the old man. “Fielding,” said Ellery imperturbably. CHAPTER XI IN WHICH THE PAST CASTS A SHADOW The telephone bell tinkled. “Q? Sampson speaking,” came the District Attorney’s voice over the wire. “Good morning, Henry,” said Queen. “Where are you and how do you feel this morning?”