And he said in a new tone, very curtly: 

“Now, Mr. Bryany, what about this little affair of yours?”

He saw that Mr..  Bryany accepted the implied rebuke with the deference properly shown by a man who needs something towards the man in possession of what he needs.  And studying the fellow’s countenance, he decided that, despite its brassiness and simple cunning, it was scarcely the countenance of a rascal.

“Well, it’s like this,” said Mr..  Bryany, sitting down opposite Edward Henry at the centre table, and reaching with obsequious liveliness for the dispatch-box.

He drew from the dispatch-box, which was lettered “W.C.B.,” first a cut-glass flask of whisky with a patent stopper, and then a spacious box of cigarettes.

“I always travel with the right sort,” he remarked, holding the golden liquid up to the light.  “It’s safer and it saves any trouble with orders after closing-time....  These English hotels, you know—!”

So saying he dispensed whisky and cigarettes, there being a siphon and glasses, and three matches in a match-stand, on the table.

“Here’s looking!” he said, with raised glass.

And Edward Henry responded, in conformity with the changeless ritual of the Five Towns: 

“I looks!”

And they sipped.

Whereupon Mr. Bryany next drew from the dispatch-box a piece of transparent paper.

“I want you to look at this plan of Piccadilly Circus and environs,” said he.

Now there is a Piccadilly in Hanbridge; also a Pall Mall and a Chancery Lane.  The adjective “metropolitan,” applied to Hanbridge, is just.

“London?” questioned Edward Henry, “I understood London when we were chatting over there.”  With his elbow he indicated the music-hall, somewhere vaguely outside the room.

“London,” said Mr. Bryany.

And Edward Henry thought: 

“What on earth am I meddling with London for?  What use should I be in London?”

“You see the plot marked in red?” Mr. Bryany proceeded.  “Well, that’s the site.  There’s an old chapel on it now.”

“What do all these straight lines mean?” Edward Henry inquired, examining the plan.  Lines radiated from the red plot in various directions.

“Those are the lines of vision,” said Mr. Bryany.

“They show just where an electric sign at the corner of the front of the proposed theatre could be seen from.  You notice the site is not in the Circus itself—­a shade to the north.”  Mr. Bryany’s finger approached Edward Henry’s on the plan, and the clouds from their cigarettes fraternally mingled.  “Now you see by those lines that the electric sign of the proposed theatre would be visible from nearly the whole of Piccadilly Circus, parts of Lower Regent Street, Coventry Street and even Shaftesbury Avenue.  You see what a site it is—­absolutely unique.”

Edward Henry asked coldly: