The snow began to fall thicker and faster. From somewhere at the side of the house two manservants came running. They were neatly and cleanly dressed, but their nervous expressions and clumsy air made Stephen wince, and wish that he had had the training of them.

For their part they stared to see a black man upon a milk-white mare in their yard. The braver of the two bobbed a sort of half-bow.

“Is this Starecross Hall?” asked Stephen.

“Yes, sir,” said the courageous servant.

“I am here on business for Sir Walter Pole. Go and fetch your master.”

The man ran off. A moment later the front door opened and a thin, dark person appeared.

“You are the madhouse-keeper?” inquired Stephen. “You are John Segundus?”

“Yes, indeed!” cried Mr Segundus. “Welcome! Welcome!”

Stephen dismounted and threw the reins to the servant. “This place is the very devil to find! We have been driving about this infernal moor for an hour. Can you send a man to bring her ladyship’s carriage here? They took the road to the left of this one at the crossroads two miles back.”

“Of course. At once,” Mr Segundus assured him. “I am sorry you have had difficulties. The house is, as you see, extremely secluded, but that is one of the reasons that it suits Sir Walter. His lady is well, I hope?”

“Her ladyship is very much fatigued by the journey.”

“Everything is ready for her reception. At least …” Mr Segundus led the way inside. “I am aware that it must be very different from what she is accustomed to …”

At the end of a short stone passage they came to a room which was a pleasant contrast with the bleak and sombre surroundings. It spoke nothing but comfort and welcome. It had been fitted up with paintings and pretty furniture, with soft carpets and cheerfully glowing lamps. There were footstools for her ladyship’s feet if she felt weary, screens to protect her from a draught if she felt cold, and books to amuse her, should she wish to read.

“Is it not suitable?” asked Mr Segundus, anxiously. “I see by your face that it is not.”

Stephen opened his mouth to tell Mr Segundus that what he saw was quite different. He saw what her ladyship would see when she entered the room. Chairs, paintings and lamps were all quite ghostly. Behind them lay the far more substantial and solid forms of Lost-hope’s bleak, grey halls and staircases.

But it was no use trying to explain any of this. The words would have changed as he spoke them; they would have turned into some nonsense about beer brewed from anger and longings for revenge; or girls whose tears turned to opals and pearls when the moon waxed and whose footprints filled with blood when the moon waned. So he contented himself with saying, “No, no. It is perfectly satisfactory. Her ladyship requires nothing more.”

To many people this might have seemed a little cool – especially if they had worked as hard as Mr Segundus – but Mr Segundus made no objection. “So this is the lady whom Mr Norrell brought back from the dead?” he said.