An examination was made of the desk used by the swindler, but nothing of value was found. The letters and bills were of no consequence, and the blank books were not worth twenty-five cents each.
"Let us go to the police station," said the men, and they went off, followed by the sick man.
"This is the worst yet," remarked Nat, as he dropped into the one easy chair of which the office boasted. "And I thought I was so smart. I'm a regular greeny, if ever there was one!" And he shook his head bitterly.
"I'm in the same boat," responded his fellow victim. "My father will be pretty mad when he hears of this. He lent me the money, and I assured him it would be perfectly safe."
"I used my own money, but it was almost the last dollar I had," said our hero, soberly. At that moment his heart felt like a lump of lead in his bosom.
"What do you suppose we can do about it?"
"I'm sure I don't know."
"Do you know where this Hamilton Dart, alias Nick Smithers, lived?"
"No."
"To look for him in a big city like this will be like looking for a needle in a haystack."