"Just so," assented the doctor. "And it takes a practised eye—or, I would rather say, an eye possessing innate discernment—to distinguish the one shade from the other: but it is unmistakable. The grey hue on Bell's face I have observed three times before during my life, in three different men; and in each case it was the forerunner of death."
Dr. Raynor's voice had become solemn. Frank, far from laughing, seemed to catch it as he spoke.
"Do you mean the forerunner of fatal illness, sir?"
"Only in one of the cases, Frank. The man had been ill for a long time, but his death was quite sudden and unexpected. The other two had no illness whatever: they died without it."
"From accident?"
"Yes, from accident. I should not avow as much to any one but you, Frank, and run the risk of being ridiculed: but I tell you that when I saw Bell come in that morning, with that peculiar grey on his face, it shocked me. I believed then, as firmly as I ever believed anything in my life, that the man's hours were numbered."
Frank neither stirred nor spoke. Just for the moment he might have been taken for a statue.
"Where Bell is, or where he went to, I know not; but from the time I first heard of his disappearance, I feared the man was dead," added Dr. Raynor. "The probability was, I thought, that he had fallen down in some fit, which had been, or would be, fatal. And I confess the marvel to me throughout has been that his body could not be found. If this rumour be true—that he is lying at the bottom of the used-up shaft—the marvel is accounted for."
"But—is it likely to be true, sir?" cried Frank, in remonstrance.
"Very likely, I think," replied the doctor. "Though I cannot imagine what should bring him there."