“How much in all?” I asked.

Wade took up a pencil and jotted three figures on a yellow pad.

“Ninety-two thousand dollars,” Wade said.

“That money was meant for your seminary degree.”

I gazed at the blue ink on the page, which had been dry for forty-five years.

“Arthur told me the board canceled the scholarship because the church was broke,” I said.

“The money was there,” Wade said.

“Arthur steered it into his private holding account.”