Nor did he divulge to either of them something he had discovered which worried him a great deal. Ever since he and Strange had parted he had been in the habit of summoning up visions to try and discover what Strange was doing. But he had never succeeded. One night, about four weeks ago, he had not been able to sleep. He had got up and performed the magic. The vision had not been very distinct, but he had seen a magician in the darkness, doing magic. He had congratulated himself on penetrating Strange’s counterspells at last; until it occurred to him that he was looking at a vision of himself in his own library. He had tried again. He had varied the spells. He named Strange in different ways. It did not matter. He was forced to conclude that English magic could no longer tell the difference between himself and Strange.

Letters arrived from Lord Liverpool and the Ministers with angry descriptions of more magic which no one could explain. Mr Norrell wrote back, promising his earliest attention to these matters just as soon as Strange had been defeated.

On the third evening after their arrival Mr Norrell, Lascelles and Childermass were gathered together in the drawing-room. Lascelles was eating an orange. He had a little pearl-handled fruit knife with a jagged blade, which he used to cut the peel. Childermass was laying out his cards upon a little table. He had been reading the cards for the past two hours. It was a measure of how far Mr Norrell was distracted by the present situation that he made not the slightest objection. Lascelles, on the other hand, was driven half-mad by those cards. He was certain that one of the subjects of all those layings-out and turnings-over was himself. In this he was perfectly correct.

“How I detest this inactivity!” he said, abruptly. “What can Strange be waiting for, do you suppose? We do not even know for certain that he will come.”

“He will come,” said Childermass.

“And how do you know that?” asked Lascelles. “Because you have told him to?”

Childermass did not respond. Something he had seen in the cards had claimed his attention. His glance flickered over them. Suddenly he rose from the table. “Mr Lascelles! You have a message for me!”

“I?” said Lascelles, in surprize.

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that someone has recently given you a message for me. The cards say so. I would be grateful if you would deliver it to me.”

Lascelles gave a snort of contempt. “I am not any body’s messenger – yours least of all!”

Childermass ignored this. “Who is the message from?” he asked.

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.