The entire thing was winched into the air and Borelli was suspended upside down, over the tank. He took in a deep breath of air, and nodded at his assistants to lower him in.

The clock began.

Madame Borelli stepped forward. ‘My husband is risking his life. In the case that something goes wrong, we do not wish for you to see him drown.’ A curtain on a frame was then rolled in to block our view of the tank.

The audience gave audible disapproval. Some boos were heard.

Madame Borelli smiled. ‘Oh … you want to see?’

‘Yes! Yes!’ came the louder response.

‘He’s unlocking the handcuffs just now,’ whispered Holmes.

‘Stop it.’

She nodded at an assistant and the curtain was wheeled off. Forty seconds, fifty, a minute. Borelli could be seen writhing as he seemed to struggle with the handcuffs.

‘I think he’s having trouble,’ I whispered to Holmes. He just smiled at me.

Borelli continued to struggle. The music began to play ominously.

‘I don’t know. This looks like a problem,’ I said.

Ninety seconds. Suddenly Borelli cast off the handcuffs. A ripple of applause. Then the illusionist contorted in the narrow tank to bend at the waist to address his ankle restraints. The clock indicated two minutes.

The audience vocalized its thrilled concern. I glanced at Holmes. He was watching closely. I turned my attention back to Borelli, who was working at the ankle cuffs. One ankle was free, the other still trapped. He paused and threw his head back in seeming despair, beating his hand against the window.

Two minutes and twenty seconds.

Madame Borelli appeared concerned.

‘Holmes!’ I said.

He seemed fascinated. Perhaps not as wide-eyed as those around us, but definitely interested.

Borelli once again attacked the remaining ankle cuff.

Two assistants approached Madame Borelli and appeared to confer with her in something of a dither. She shook her head.

Two minutes and forty seconds.

‘That is a terribly long time to hold one’s breath,’ I said.

‘He is practised, Watson,’ said my friend.

One ankle was free. The other was not. Borelli worked at it, apparently frantic. One assistant came out with a sledgehammer. Then the second.

Three minutes. Were we going to watch a man die before us?

‘Holmes?’

‘He is having trouble with that second ankle cuff,’ said Holmes.

Three minutes and ten seconds. The music stopped. Silence. Borelli seemed to collapse and float downward, becoming caught halfway, still bent at the waist, against the side of the tank, unconscious perhaps. The assistants raised their sledgehammers and glanced at Madame Borelli.

Her posture had changed. She was leaning forward, the picture of alarm.

‘Oh no!’ I said.

Suddenly Borelli gave a great twist and his second ankle came free. He folded like a jackknife, reversed position in the water, and shot to the top.