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.
At last he walked straight through the hotel and out at the other entrance, and so up the little unassuming side street into the roaring torrent of the narrow and crowded Strand.

He jumped on a Putney bus, and paid his fair to Putney, fivepence, and then, finding that the humble occupants of the vehicle stared at the spectacle of a man in evening dress but without a dustcoat, he jumped off again, oblivious of the fact that the conductor jerked a thumb towards him and winked at the passengers as who should say, 'There goes a lunatic.' He went into a tobacconist's shop and asked for a cigar.

The shopman mildly inquired what price.
'What are the best you've got ?' asked Theodore Racksole.
'Five shillings each, sir,' said the man promptly.
'Give me a penny one,' was Theodore Racksole's laconic request, and he walked out of the shop smoking the penny cigar.

It was a new sensation for him.
He was inhaling the aromatic odours of Eugene Rimmel's establishment for the sale of scents when a gentleman, walking slowly in the opposite direction, accosted him with a quiet, 'Good evening, Mr Racksole.' The millionaire did not at first recognize his interlocutor, who wore a travelling overcoat, and was carrying a handbag.