‘‘That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?’’

‘‘Partly,’’ Max admitted.

‘‘Mostly,’’ Gilbey said.

‘‘Mainly.’’ Old Man Weider drained off half a pint.

‘‘There’s something going on over there that ain’t right. I don’t believe it’s ghosts. I think it’s somebody working stunts. With extortion in mind.’’

‘‘There are bugs, though,’’ Gilbey said.

‘‘In the winter?’’

‘‘In the winter. And the World won’t work if the customers have to deal with bugs.’’

I didn’t say so but bugs are a fact of life. In my world, anyway. You have to come to a natural understanding with them, so to speak.

‘‘You’ll see,’’ Gilbey promised.

My skepticism was too obvious.

Gilbey clambered to his feet. I thought he was going for refills. I was wrong. He collected a drawing board, two feet by three. A sheet of fine handmade paper was affixed. Someone had used writing sticks to create excellent drawings of a building.

I have a small financial interest in the manufactory that produces the writing sticks and a dozen other miraculous gimmicks.

Max has a bigger chunk of the same operation. As does Tinnie’s family. They provided the capital. I delivered the inventor.

Max said, ‘‘They call those ‘elevations,’ Garrett. That’s what the World will look like when it’s done.’’

‘‘All right. I’ll take your word. But these two here look more like maps than pictures.’’

Gilbey said, ‘‘They are maps. This is the ground-level layout. The band pits. The stages. The passageways to the center. We thought we could do the vendor work out of there. A carpenter who knows theater told us that was dumb. So that’s where the actors will wait and change and where the ready props will be stored. The vendors will operate from under the second– and first-class seating.’’

‘‘All right.’’ I followed his finger but didn’t really picture it. ‘‘It looks like a pie.’’