THE RETURN OF FéLIX BABYLONON the evening of Prince Eugen's fateful interview with Mr Sampson Levi， Theodore Racksole was wandering somewhat aimlessly and uneasily about the entrance hail and adjacent corridors of the Grand Babylon. He had returned from Ostend only a day or two previously， and had endeavoured with all his might to forget the affair which had carried him there - to regard it， in fact， as done with. But he found himself unable to do so. In vain he remarked， under his breath， that there were some things which were best left alone： if his experience as a manipulator of markets， a contriver of gigantic schemes in New York， had taught him anything at all， it should surely have taught him that. Yet he could not feel reconciled to such a position. The mere presence of the princes in his hotel roused the fighting instincts of this man， who had never in his whole career been beaten. He had， as it were， taken up arms on their side， and if the princes of Posen would not continue their own battle， nevertheless he， Theodore Racksole， wanted to continue it for them. To a certain extent， of course， the battle had been won， for Prince Eugen had been rescued from an extremely difficult and dangerous position， and the enemy -consisting of Jules， Rocco， Miss Spencer， and perhaps others - had been put to flight. But that， he conceived， was not enough； it was very far from being enough. That the criminals， for criminals they decidedly were， should still be at large， he regarded as an absurd anomaly. And there was another point： he had said nothing to the police of all that had occurred. He disdained the police， but he could scarcely fail to perceive that if the police should by accident gain a clue to the real state of the case he might be placed rather awkwardly， for the simple reason that in the eyes of the law it amounted to a misdemeanour to conceal as much as he had concealed. He asked himself， for the thousandth time， why he had adopted a policy of concealment from the police， why he had become in any way interested in the Posen matter， and why， at this present moment， he should be so anxious to prosecute it further？
To the first two questions he replied， rather lamely， that he had been influenced by Nella， and also by a natural spirit of adventure；to the third he replied that he had always been in the habit of carrying things through， and was now actuated by a mere childish， obstinate desire to carry this one through. Moreover， he was spendidly conscious of his perfect ability to carry it through. One additional impulse he had， though he did not admit it to himself， being by nature adverse to big words， and that was an abstract love of justice， the Anglo-Saxon's deep-found instinct for helping the right side to conquer， even when grave risks must thereby be run， with no corresponding advantage.
He was turning these things over in his mind as he walked about the vast hotel on that evening of the last day in July. The Society papers had been stating for a week past that London was empty， but， in spite of the Society papers， London persisted in seeming to be just as full as ever. The Grand Babylon was certainly not as crowded as it had been a month earlier， but it was doing a very passable business. At the close of the season the gay butterflies of the social community have a habit of hovering for a day or two in the big hotels before they flutter away to castle and country-house， meadow and moor， lake and stream. The great basket-chairs in the portico were well filled by old and middle-aged gentlemen engaged in enjoying the varied delights of liqueurs， cigars， and the full moon which floated so serenely above the Thames. Here and there a pretty woman on the arm of a cavalier in immaculate attire swept her train as she turned to and fro in the promenade of the terrace. Waiters and uniformed commissionaires and gold-braided doorkeepers moved noiselessly about； at short intervals the chief of the doorkeepers blew his shrill whistle and hansoms drove up with tinkling bell to take away a pair of butterflies to some place of amusement or boredom； occasionally a private carriage drawn by expensive and self-conscious horses put the hansoms to shame by its mere outward glory. It was a hot night， a night for the summer woods， and save for the vehicles there was no rapid movement of any kind. It seemed as though the world - the world， that is to say， of the Grand Babylon - was fully engaged in the solemn processes of digestion and small-talk. Even the long row of the Embankment gas-lamps， stretching right and left， scarcely trembled in the still， warm， caressing air. The stars overhead looked down with many blinkings upon the enormous pile of the Grand Babylon， and the moon regarded it with bland and changeless face； what they thought of it and its inhabitants cannot， unfortunately， be recorded. What Theodore Racksole thought of the moon can be recorded： he thought it was a nuisance. It somehow fascinated his gaze with its silly stare， and so interfered with his complex meditations. He glanced round at the well-dressed and satisfied people - his guests， his customers. They appeared to ignore him absolutely.
Probably only a very small percentage of them had the least idea that this tall spare man， with the iron-grey hair and the thin， firm， resolute face， who wore his American-cut evening clothes with such careless ease， was the sole proprietor of the Grand Babylon， and possibly the richest man in Europe. As has already been stated， Racksole was not a celebrity in England.
The guests of the Grand Babylon saw merely a restless male person， whose restlessness was rather a disturber of their quietude， but with whom， to judge by his countenance， it would be inadvisable to remonstrate. Therefore Theodore Racksole continued his perambulations unchallenged， and kept saying to himself， 'I must do something.' But what？ He could think of no course to pursue.
