Dr. Raynor followed him to the door. After glancing up and down the street at the men collected there, he returned to the surgery.
"It is evident that something or other is exciting them," he observed to Frank. "I wonder what can have given rise to the report?"
"Some folly or other, Uncle Hugh. It will soon die away again."
Dr. Raynor stood near the window, his eyes fixed on the outer scenes, his mind far away. Frank, who had made an end of his physic, stood buttoning his coat.
"I have never believed anything but the worst, since Bell's disappearance," said the doctor. "Others have expected him to return: I never have. Where he may be, I know not: whether accident, or some other ill, may have chanced to him, I know not: but I entertain no hope that the man is still living."
There was a pause. "Have you any reason for saying that, sir?" asked Frank, somewhat hesitatingly.
"No reason in the world," replied Dr. Raynor. "At least, no sufficient reason. I am an old man, Frank, and you are a young one; and what I am about to say you will probably laugh at. I did not like Bell's look when we last saw him."
Frank was at a loss to understand: and said so.
"I did not like that grey look on his face," continued the doctor. "Do you remember it?"
"Yes, I do, Uncle Hugh. It was very peculiar. Sometimes when a person is ill, or going to be ill, the face turns quite grey from loss of colour, and we say to them, You are looking grey this morning. But the shade on Bell's face was quite different from that."