There was a spell Childermass knew. It was a spell to detect magic. It could not tell you what the magic was or who was performing it; it simply told you whether there was any magic occurring or not. At least that was what it was supposed to do. Childermass had only ever tried it once and there had been nothing. He had no way of knowing whether or not it worked.

“Fill the glass again,” he told Lucas.

Lucas did so.

This time Childermass did not drink from the glass. Instead he muttered some words at it. Then he held it up to the light and peered through it, turning slowly until he had surveyed every part of the room through the glass.

There was nothing.

“I am not even sure what I am looking for,” he murmured. To Lucas he said, “Come. I need your help.”

They returned to the library. Childermass held up the glass again and said the words and looked through it.

Nothing.

He approached the window. For a moment he thought he saw something at the bottom of the glass like a pearl of white light.

“It is in the square,” he said.

“What is in the square?” asked Lucas.

Childermass did not answer. Instead, he looked out of the window. Snow covered the muddy cobbles of Hanover-square. The black railings that surrounded the enclosure in the centre shewed sharply against the whiteness. Snow was still falling and there was a sharp wind. Despite this there were several people in the square. It was well known that Mr Norrell lived in Hanover-square and people came here, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Just now a gentleman and two young ladies (all, doubtless, fanatics for magic) were standing in front of the house, gazing at it in some excitement. A little further off a dark young man was lounging against the railings. Near him was an ink-seller with a ragged coat and a little barrel of ink upon his back. On the right there was another lady. She had turned away from the house and was walking slowly in the direction of Hanover-street, but Childermass had the notion that she had been among the onlookers only a moment before. She was fashionably and expensively dressed in a dark green pelisse trimmed with ermine, and she carried a large ermine muff.

Childermass knew the ink-seller well – he had often bought ink from him. The others were, he thought, all strangers. “Do you recognize anyone?” he asked.

“That dark-haired fellow.” Lucas pointed to the young man leaning against the railings. “That is Frederick Marston. He has been here several times to ask Mr Norrell to take him as a pupil, but Mr Norrell has always refused to see him.”