“Of me, or you, or—both of us?” asked Larry. “Are you sure he wasn’t the man to whom you sold the valise?”
“Almost positive. That man had a black beard.”
“It might have been a false one,” suggested the reporter.
“I do not think so,” the girl answered. “I have been in some amateur theatricals, and I can tell a false beard when I see one. His was real. No, that young man wasn’t the one.”
“Then why did he run?” asked Larry suspiciously.
“Maybe he thought you would take after him,” suggested Miss Mason, with a smile. “He doubtless remembered how you treated him after he jostled against me.”
“Well, that may be the reason,” agreed Larry, doubtfully.
“I’m sure of it,” said Miss Mason.
“Then I guess I’m at the end of my rope,” said the young reporter, after a bit. “That wasn’t the man who bought the valise, though he looked like him from the back. The one who bought it had a black beard, but as there must be thousands of men in New York who have the same kind of whiskers, that clew isn’t of much account. I guess I’ll have to go back to the bricks.”
“The bricks?” questioned the girl wonderingly.