The dreadful death of the unlucky beater, shot in the thicket like a wild animal, had seemed to him to pre-figure death for himself also.

He had nearly swooned at what Lord Henry had said in a chance mood of cynical jesting.
At five o'clock he rang his bell for his servant and gave him orders to pack his things for the night-express to town, and to have the brougham at the door by eight-thirty.

He was determined not to sleep another night at Selby Royal.

It was an ill-omened place.

Death walked there in the sunlight.