"No, we can't blame you for that," repeated Earl, yet at the same time wondering who there was in that strange city who knew them.
"I don't know of any one here who knows us," put in Randy, reading his elder brother's thought. "I wish Uncle had sent the money in some other way."
"See here," put in the police official. "Since those swindlers had the letter that was lost up near where you come from, perhaps you know the men. Mr. Stone, can't you describe them?"
As well as he was able the broker did so. But the description was so indefinite that both Earl and Randy shook their heads.
"I know a dozen men who look a good deal like that description," said the older brother. "It's possible they were lumbermen like ourselves."
"Yes, they did look like lumbermen," replied Mr. Stone. "That is why I was not so particular about their identification."
For another half hour the matter was talked over, and then as it was getting time to close up the office for the day, Earl and Randy left, to find some one to identify them, were such a thing possible. At the corner of the block both halted.
"I'm blessed if I know what to do," were Randy's words. "I can't think of a soul who knows us here."
"There used to be a man named Curtis Gordon who once lived at Basco—he owned the feed mill there. He came to Boston and started a flour business. But whether he would remember me is a question. He hasn't seen me in about eight years."
"We might try him—it would be better than nothing!" cried Randy, eagerly. "Let us hunt him up in the directory."