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Clay’s head surfaced and floated away, carried by the current.
    â€˜He must have drowned,’ cried a panicked voice.
    â€˜Or been poisoned, jumping into that filthy old river,’ said another.
    â€˜Someone do something,’ yelled a woman.
    â€˜Two and half minutes.’
    â€˜He’s a gonner,’ said Tom.
    â€˜No, look,’ said Esther.
    This time it was the rope that appeared.
    â€˜Three minutes,’ yelled a voice.
    â€˜Over there, Tom,’ said Esther. With every eye watching the spot where he had gone under, no one in the crowd noticed a dripping figure climb up a set of steps on the other side of the jetty. Moving with the easy agility of a monkey, Clay clambered up onto a large metal pillar which supported the jetty. At the top he adopted a victorious pose, with his legs together and his arms in the air.
    A drop of water fell from one of his soaking sleeves and alerted the crowd to his presence. A lady screamed and the entire crowd swung round to see the man standing on top of the huge pillar. The awed silence was broken by sudden, overjoyed applause and cries of ‘Miracle!’, ‘Incredible!’
and ‘Remarkable!’
    A well-dressed man stepped out in front of the crowd and addressed them. ‘If you enjoyed that you can come and be amazed again when the remarkable Mr Clay takes to the stage of my Theatre Royal, Victoria, next week.’
    With this man diverting the crowd’s attention, Clay made his way quickly up the gangway. He speedily towelled himself dry, then slipped into a fresh shirt. By the time he was level with Tom and Esther he had pulled a hat over his head and become virtually invisible to the crowd that had been enraptured by his stunt. To Esther, who had some experience in vanishing into crowds herself, this was as remarkable a feat as the escape from the water.
    She jumped off the wall and landed in front of him. ‘Mr Clay,’ she said.
    A second man appeared and pushed her to the side.
    â€˜Oi, watch who you’re pushing,’ said Tom.
    â€˜Harry Clay doesn’t give autographs,’ said the man, who looked about the same age as Clay but wore a crooked top hat on his head and a thick moustache on his upper lip.
    â€˜It’s all right, Fred,’ said Clay, spying the envelope in Esther’s hand. ‘Providing you have a pen, I’ll make an exception this once.’
    â€˜It’s not for signing,’ said Esther. ‘It’s a letter for you.’
    â€˜How kind,’ Clay replied. He took it from her. She watched his eyebrows rise as he read its contents. Whatever these letters said, they were obviously enough to intrigue a man as intriguing as the Remarkable Harry Clay.

Chapter 7
Language
    The third envelope took the orphans to Bedford Square. The houses here had several steps leading up to the front door, as though they were far too grand to stand at street level. Iron gates in front of the steps provided an extra layer of protection from the outside world. It was the kind of area that afforded good opportunities for the quick witted and the light fingered, but Tom and Esther had never before had cause to knock on one of the doors.
    It was opened by a tall man with skin the colour and texture of tree bark. His clothes were made not from cotton or wool but from exotic animal hides. Tom nudged Esther and pointed at his bare feet.
    â€˜We have a letter for Mr Symmonds,’ said Esther.
    The man held out a huge hand to take the letter but Esther kept it back. ‘It is to be delivered into Mr Symmonds’ hand only,’ she said.
    The man stared silently.
    â€˜How do you know this ain’t Symmonds?’ said Tom to Esther, keen to get away.
    â€˜He don’t look like a John Symmonds to me,’ replied Esther.
    The man turned and walked into one of the rooms, leaving the door open. They heard voices from within, speaking a language they could not understand. After a brief