At the gate he stopped and ran around to open the door to assist his fare to alight.
"Wait for me," she said, without paying him yet. "I shall not be long and I want to be driven back to the station to catch the four twenty-nine to New York."
As she limped up the gravel walk, he watched her closely. She went to the door and rang the bell, and the valet admitted her.
Del Mar was still sitting, thinking, in the library.
"Mr. Del Mar?" she inquired.
The voice was not exactly soft, and Del Mar eyed her suspiciously. Was this the person he expected, or a "plant?"
"Yes," he answered, guardedly, "I am Mr. Del Mar. And you?"
The widow, too, evidently wished to make no mistake. As she spoke, she raised her hand. By that simple action she displayed a curious and conspicuous seal ring on her finger. It was the sign of the ring for which Del Mar had been waiting.
He extended his own left hand. On the ring finger was another ring, but not similar. As he did so, the widow took the ring from her own finger and placed it on the little finger of Del Mar.
"Good!" he exclaimed.