But now the picture and the name in the paper had brought forth a reaction in Stanton's mind, and he was trying desperately to bring the information out of oblivion.
Did he have a mother? Surely. But could he remember her? Yes! Certainly. A pretty, gentle, rather sad woman. He could remember when she died, although he couldn't remember ever having actually attended the funeral.
What about his father?
Try as he might, he could find no memory whatever of his father, and, at first, that bothered him. He could remember his mother—could almost see her moving around in the apartment where they had lived in ... in ... in Denver! Sure! And he could remember the big building itself, and the block, and even Mrs. Frobisher, who lived upstairs! And the school! And the play area! A great many memories came crowding back, but there was no trace of his father.
And yet ...
Oh, of course! That was it! His father had been killed in an accident when Martinbart were very young.
Martinbart!
The name flitted through his mind like a scrap of paper in a high wind, but mentally he reached out and grasped it.
Martinbart. Martin-Bart. Mart 'n' Bart. Mart and Bart.
The Stanton Twins.