“I am very much afraid,” he said, “that we are both the victims of a complicated plot; but let me assure you that so far as I am concerned, the wrong to you shall be made right without a moment’s delay.  Now I want you to go to sleep, and while you are resting I will seek an interview with the man whom you claim as your father.”

Ray’s weak fingers closed over the hand he held in a friendly clasp at this assurance, and he was at once inspired with implicit confidence in the physician.

“Thank you,” he said, a trustful smile wreathing his thin lips, “I will be obedient and go to sleep, but I shall expect to find my father here when I awake.”

“If Amos Palmer is your father, you will surely find him by your bedside after you have had your nap,” Doctor Wesselhoff responded, and with another hand-clasp he withdrew from the room.

In less than five minutes Ray was sleeping quietly and restfully.

Half an hour later the great brain specialist rang the bell of Amos Palmer’s handsome residence.  The servant who answered it replied in the affirmative when asked if the gentleman of the house was in, and ushered the visitor into a richly furnished reception-room leading from the hall.

A few minutes later a sorrowful, despondent-looking gentleman entered, and politely, although somewhat absently, saluted his caller.

He did not look much like the upright, energetic and affable gentleman who had so courteously served the elegant Mrs. Vanderbeck a few weeks previous.

His face was wan and drawn with anguish, his cheeks were hollow, his eyes sunken, heavy and lusterless; his form was bowed, his steps feeble and faltering.

After saluting Doctor Wesselhoff, he threw himself, with a heavy sigh, into a chair, where he immediately became absorbed in his own painful thoughts, appearing to forget that there was any one present, or that there were duties devolving upon him as host.

“Mr. Palmer,” said the physician, breaking in upon his sorrowful reverie, “my name is Wesselhoff, and I have called to consult with you regarding the very peculiar circumstances connected with your son’s disappearance.”

Amos Palmer was like one electrified upon hearing this.  He sat erect, and stared with wondering eyes at his companion, and began to tremble violently.

“My son! my son!” he cried, in quavering tones.  “Oh, if you can tell me anything—­if you can tell me that he—­lives,” the word was scarcely audible, “you will put new life into me.”

“Tell me his full name, if you please,” said Doctor Wesselhoff, who was scarcely less excited than the trembling man before him.

“Raymond Palmer.”

“Describe him to me.”

Amos Palmer gave him a minute description of the young man as he appeared on the day that he had been trapped into the physician’s house, even to the clothing which he had worn, and the doctor was at last convinced that, all unwittingly, he had assisted in the perpetration of a double crime.