Lascelles said nothing. He went back to his knife and his orange.

“Very well,” said Childermass and he sat down and laid out the cards again.

Mr Norrell, in a state of great apprehension, watched them. His hand fluttered up towards the bell-cord, but after a moment’s consideration he changed his mind and went in search of a servant himself. Lucas was in the dining-room, laying the table. Mr Norrell told him what was going on. “Can not something be done to separate them?” he asked. “They might be cooler in a while. Has no message come for Mr Lascelles? Is there nothing that needs Childermass’s attention? Can you not invent something? What about dinner? Can it be ready?”

Lucas shook his head. “There is no message. Mr Childermass will do as he pleases – he always does. And you ordered dinner for half-past nine, sir. You know you did.”

“I wish Mr Strange were here,” said Mr Norrell, miserably. “He would know what to say to them. He would know what to do.”

Lucas touched his master’s arm as if trying to rouse him. “Mr Norrell? We are trying to prevent Mr Strange from coming here – if you remember, sir?”

Mr Norrell looked at him in some irritation. “Yes, yes! I know that! But still.”

Mr Norrell and Lucas returned to the drawing-room together. Childermass was turning over his last card. Lascelles was staring with great determination at a newspaper.

“What do the cards say?” said Mr Norrell to Childermass.

Mr Norrell asked the question, but Childermass spoke his answer to Lascelles. “They say that you are a liar and a thief. They say that there is more than a message. You have been given something – an object – something of great value. It is meant for me and yet you retain it.”

A short silence.

Lascelles said coldly, “Mr Norrell, how long do you intend that I shall be insulted in this manner?”

“I ask you for the last time, Mr Lascelles,” said Childermass, “will you give me what is mine?”

“How dare you address a gentleman in such a fashion?” asked Lascelles.

“And is it the act of a gentleman to steal from me?” replied Childermass.

Lascelles turned a dead white. “Apologize!” he hissed. “Apologize to me or I swear, you whoreson, you dregs of every Yorkshire gutter, I will teach you better manners.”

Childermass shrugged. “Better a whoreson than a thief!”

With a cry of rage, Lascelles seized him and thrust him against the wall so hard that Childermass’s feet actually left the ground. He shook Childermass and the paintings on the wall rattled in their frames.

Curiously, Childermass seemed defenceless against Lascelles. His arms had somehow got pinned against Lascelles’s body and though he struggled hard, he seemed unable to free them. It was over in a moment. Childermass nodded briefly at Lascelles as if to say Lascelles had won.

But Lascelles did not release him. Instead, he leant hard against him, keeping him trapped against the wall. Then he reached down and picked up the pearl-handled knife with the jagged edge. He drew the blade slowly across Childermass’s face, cutting him from eye to mouth.