“I believe she was connected in some way with that strange affair.  She may be the woman who called upon Doctor Wesselhoff to arrange for my imprisonment,” he said to himself, after he had left her.  “At all events,” he added, resolutely, “I am going to lay the matter before Detective Rider, and see what he thinks about it.”

He was more strongly confirmed in his suspicions a few minutes later, when he saw Mrs. Vanderheck bidding her host and hostess good-night, and then withdraw from the company.

About ten o’clock supper was served, and, strangely enough, after the company was seated, Ray found that his left-hand neighbor was no other than the fascinating Mrs. Montague, while, glancing beyond her, he saw that his father had acted as her escort to the table.

It annoyed him exceedingly to see them together, and to observe the gallantry with which his father was attending to the fair widow’s wants.

During all the years that had elapsed since the death of his mother, Mr. Palmer had not manifested the slightest desire for the society of ladies, and Ray had never thought of such a thing as his marrying again.

But now it suddenly flashed across him:  “What if this gay woman of the world, with her beauty and powers of fascination, should tempt him to make her the mistress of his home and wealth?”

The thought was far from agreeable to him, and yet he could not have told why.

He could find no fault with Mrs. Montague personally; she was beautiful in face and figure; she was delightful in manner.  Why, then, did he shrink from the thought of having her come into the family?

Was he jealous?  Was he selfish?  Did he begrudge his father the comfort and enjoyment of a more perfect domestic life?  Was he unwilling to have any one come between them?  Was he fearful that his own prospects—­his expectations of wealth—­would be affected by such a union?

All these questions darted through his mind, and he felt shamed and humiliated by them.  He could not analyze his feelings; he only knew that the thought was not pleasant to him.

Mr. Palmer soon espied his son, and leaning back in his chair, asked, with his usual genial smile: 

“Well, Ray, who have you for a companion?”

“Miss Grace Merrill,” he briefly responded.

“Ah! a pleasant girl; but allow me to make you acquainted with your left-hand neighbor also; Mrs. Montague, my son, Mr. Raymond Palmer.”

Mrs. Montague turned to the young man with her most brilliant smile, though a gleam of amusement illuminated her lovely eyes, as she remarked the conscious flush upon the elder gentleman’s face, as he performed the ceremony of introduction.

“I am delighted to meet you, Mr. Palmer,” she said:  “but I could hardly believe that you were the son when your father pointed you out to me.”

Ray could not have been ungracious beneath the charm of her manner, even had he been naturally so, and he soon found himself disarmed of all his disagreeable reflections and basking with delight in the sunshine of her presence, her bright wit and repartee, and her sweet, rippling laugh.  By the time supper was over it would have been difficult to tell who was the more ardent admirer of the fascinating widow—­the father or the son.