Shane stood behind the heavy velvet curtains of his Savoy Hotel suite, his fingertips tracing the chill of the glass as he gazed out at the morning mist rolling over the Thames.
The faint whistles of steamboats drifted through the fog, and below, the cries of newsboys already filled the Strand. Their headlines were all the same:
"THE CIRCUS BREAKS ALL RECORDS!"
Over the past fortnight, Chaplin's new film had set London ablaze. From Leicester Square to Piccadilly, queues formed before dawn and lingered long after midnight. Crowds wrapped around corners, spilling into the streets like pilgrims before a shrine.
Inside the Board of Trade, tempers flared.
"This is preposterous—utterly preposterous!" barked one elderly committee member, his spectacles trembling as he slammed a report onto the table. "Thirty-seven thousand pounds in a single day! No market behaves like this. It's not commerce—it's contagion!"
Across the table, a younger member leapt to his feet, his voice bright with conviction. "That's precisely why we must study it, sir! This is no anomaly—it's a new kind of economic behavior, a concentrated burst of consumer energy."
He seized a piece of chalk and scrawled across the board in broad strokes: "Demand Peaking Model."
The room fell silent except for the distant hum of traffic outside. Finally, the chairman leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin.
"Very well," he murmured. "Record it. This… may change the way we measure the future of the cinema."
The mania soon reached Scotland Yard. A formal notice was issued to all theater managers:
"Effective immediately, any cinema exhibiting The Circus must apply for a 'Cinema-Queue Permit' twenty-four hours in advance and submit a detailed security plan."
It was the first time in London's history that the police had regulated film queues.
The newspapers only fanned the flames. Columns in The Times, The Daily Express, and The Morning Chronicle celebrated the phenomenon, while The Daily Herald ran a front-page letter from a dockworker titled "I Took Half a Day Off for Chaplin."
For the first time, cinema was not merely entertainment—it was a public ritual.
When theater managers began experimenting with early-morning and midnight showings, the trend became a citywide sensation. The Women's Weekly dubbed the 7 a.m. screenings "A Silent Revolution," noting that typists, factory girls, and shop clerks were now attending films before work—something previously unheard of.
One brisk morning, Shane's associate, Mr. Catterson, entered the suite with a ledger pressed tightly under his arm. His face gleamed with suppressed excitement.
"Last night's midnight show was packed again, Mr. Cassidy," he said breathlessly. "Even standing tickets were sold out. Telegrams keep arriving from Manchester, Birmingham, and Edinburgh—they all want distribution rights."
Shane scanned the figures without visible reaction. The profits were astonishing, but his thoughts were elsewhere—on the invitation lying open on his desk.
J. D. Williams of the Gaumont Film Company had requested a meeting at their Wardour Street headquarters.
Williams's office occupied the top floor of the Gaumont-British building, accessible only by a final narrow staircase. The late afternoon sun spilled through the tall windows, glinting off the brass fittings of a Pioneer Optics Model-1 projector in the corner.
"Mr. Cassidy," said Williams, rising from behind his mahogany desk. He crossed to the cabinet and poured two glasses of Scotch, the amber liquid glowing in the crystal. "Let's discuss your color process proposal."
He slid a draft agreement across the table.
"We offer a three-year exclusive license for your company's three-strip color technology across continental Europe," he began, his tone practiced and smooth. "In exchange, a down payment of £250,000—paid through National Provincial Bank acceptance bills—and an 8% share of net box office revenue on all color films distributed by Gaumont."
He paused, watching Shane's unreadable expression. "Should profits exceed £320,000 within three years, the agreement concludes; if not, it extends by one. A fair balance of security and opportunity."
Shane leaned back, eyes drifting toward the projector's gleaming lens. "A fine offer," he said evenly. "But I reviewed the National Provincial's acceptance records this morning. They've grown cautious—especially with securities tied to Berlin's market fluctuations."
Williams adjusted the blinds, muting the glare across the table. "Markets rise and fall, Mr. Cassidy. Vision endures. If the acceptance term worries you, we can reduce it from eighteen months to twelve."
Shane lifted his glass, ice chiming softly. "Then the payment becomes a sight draft, the revenue cap increases to £500,000, and Gaumont assumes half the processing costs." He smiled faintly. "That would show true confidence in the venture."
The negotiation stretched over three days, a quiet duel fought with ledgers and telegrams. Williams pressed downward; Shane countered with data—pre-sale charts, glowing reviews, and letters from European distributors eager for copies.
By the fourth evening, The Times published an article titled "Technology and the New Cinema Economy", praising Shane Cassidy's innovations and hinting at his forthcoming lecture before the Royal Society of Arts.
As Big Ben tolled seven across the twilight, Williams finally sighed, loosening his tie.
"Very well. A sight draft. The cap at £400,000. Gaumont will bear 30% of processing costs—but we retain first negotiation rights for any future upgrades."
He signed his name with a flourish, then extended his hand. "Mr. Cassidy, Paris awaits. Theater owners on the Champs-Élysées are already asking when The Circus will cross the Channel."
Shane rose, his expression calm but resolute, and shook his hand firmly.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Williams," he said.