Some rather violent exclamations from the young men such as, “Desperate villain!” and “Abominable scoundrel!” did little to reassure Mr Murray, but after a few moments he began to understand that it was not he whom they were abusing, but Norrell.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said, “but if it is not too much trouble, I wonder if you would do me the kindness of informing me who you are?”

The young men were surprized. They had supposed they were better known than that. They introduced themselves. They were Strange’s three pupils-in-waiting, Henry Purfois, William Hadley-Bright and Tom Levy.

William Hadley-Bright and Henry Purfois were both tall and handsome, while Tom Levy was a small, slight figure with dark hair and eyes. As has already been noted, Hadley-Bright and Purfois were well-born English gentlemen, while Tom was an ex-dancing-master whose forefathers had all been Hebrew. Happily Hadley-Bright and Purfois took very little notice of such distinctions of rank and ancestry. Knowing Tom to be the most talented amongst them, they generally deferred to him in all matters of magical scholarship, and, apart from calling him by his given name (while he addressed them as Mr Purfois and Mr Hadley-Bright) and expecting him to pick up books they left behind them, they were very much inclined to treat him as an equal.

“We cannot sit about doing nothing while this villain, this monster destroys Mr Strange’s great work!” declared Henry Purfois. “Give us something to do, Mr Murray! That is all we ask!”

“And if that something could involve running Mr Norrell through with a very sharp sabre, then so much the better,” added William Hadley-Bright.

“Can one of you go after Strange and bring him back?” asked Mr Murray.

“Oh, certainly! Hadley-Bright is your man for that!” declared Henry Purfois. “He was one of the Duke’s aides-de-camp at Waterloo, you know. There is nothing he likes better than dashing about on a horse at impossible speeds.”

“Do you know where Mr Strange has gone?” asked Tom Levy.

“Two weeks ago he was in Geneva,” said Mr Murray. “I had a letter from him this morning. He may be still there. Or he may have gone on to Italy.”

The door opened and Shackleton walked in, his wig hung with drops of rain as if he had decorated it with innumerable glass beads. “All is well,” he said eagerly to Mr Murray. “The books are still in their bales.”

“You saw them with your own eyes?”

“Yes, indeed. I dare say it takes a good deal of magic to make ten thousand books disappear.”

“I wish I could be so sanguine,” said Tom Levy. “Forgive me, Mr Murray, but from all I ever heard of Mr Norrell once he has set himself a task he works tirelessly at it until it is accomplished. I do not believe we have time to wait for Mr Strange to come back.”