PART III
CHAPTER I THE LAST SOVEREIGN
On the morning of the fourth of June, the same morning on which Simon had broken like a butterfly from his chrysalis of long-moulded custom and stiff routine, Mr. Bobby Ravenshaw, nephew and only near relation of Simon Pettigrew, awoke in his chambers in Pactolus Mansions, Piccadilly, yawned, rang for his tea, and, picking up the book he had put beside him on dropping to sleep, began to read.
The book was Monte Cristo. Now Pactolus Mansions, Piccadilly, sounds a very grand address, and, as a matter of fact, it is a grand address, but the address is grander than the place. For one thing, it is not in Piccadilly, the approach is up a dubious side street; the word "Pactolus" bears little relationship to it, nor the word "Mansions," and the rents are moderate. Downstairs there is a restaurant and a lounge with cosy corners.
People take chambers in Pactolus Mansions and vanish. The fact is never reported to the Society for Psychical Research, the levitation being always accountable for by solid reasons. To stop them from vanishing before their rent is paid they have to pay their rent in advance. No credit is given under any circumstances. This seems hard, yet there are the compensating advantages that the rent is low, the service good, and the address taking.