Middleton had dropped some game he was carrying and was muttering to himself.
"We call that the Black Wood," Dominey said calmly, "and I am rather afraid that the pheasants who find their way there claim sanctuary.

What do you think, Middleton ?" The old man turned his head slowly and looked at his master.

Somehow or other, every scrap of colour seemed to have faded out of his bronzed face.

His eyes were filled with that vague horror of the supernatural common amongst the peasant folk of various localities.

His voice shook.
The old fear was back again.
"You wouldn't put the beaters in there, Squire ?" he faltered; "not that there's one of them would go." "Have we stumbled up against a local superstition ?" the Duke enquired.
"That's not altogether local, your Grace," Middleton replied, "as the Squire himself will tell you.