"He looks his age at least," observed the other, emphatically.
"Yes; dark people always do."
"And your husband is dark, like him, I remember."
"Yes; his complexion is swarthy, though he is not slim, like Charles."
Mrs. Coe, still in the arm-chair into which she had first sunk, here closed her eyes; either the faintness of which she had complained was coming on again, or she did not wish to meet the other's searching gaze.
There was a long pause, during which Mrs. Basil went to the cellaret, and pouring out a glass of sherry, put it to her tenant's lips.
"Do you feel better now?" said she, when Harry had drunk it.
"Yes, yes; much better. But that skull—oh, horrible! it rolled from him to me. What an omen on your very threshold! Heaven guard my Charles from evil!"
"This is weakness, Mrs. Coe. The skull is harmless; and it rolled because your son upset it."
"Yes, my son," gasped the other, trembling. "It is for him I fear. It augurs death—death—death!"