Fortunes made, inherited, or spent on increasingly strange things.

Francis Egerton, 8th Earl of Bridgewater — Fellow of the Royal Society, prebendary of Durham — dined every night in Paris with a dozen dogs in tailored coats and linen napkins, each attended by its own footman.

What kind of hermit hires two armed guards, then hands out gin to two hundred children through the bars of his window?

What does a billionaire do when the hotel manager tries to evict him from the suite he refuses to leave?

What does the richest man in America do when a photographer finally catches him on the street at age 80?

What does a man who made three fortunes — in indigo, saltpeter, and Sacramento gold dust — do for an encore at forty-eight?

A Glasgow grocer spent thirty-one years and five yachts chasing the same silver cup, and lost every single race.

He sailed to Tahiti, India, and Japan in 1920 and never left his cabin — so what exactly was he doing in there?

What does it take to invent modern estate planning, compose polytonal symphonies on weekends, and then leave a Pulitzer-winning piece in a drawer for thirty-six years?

Who lobbies the League of Nations, twice, to adopt a calendar he designed himself?

If a man dripping in diamonds dies owning only razors, combs, and a pair of sunglasses, where did the diamonds go?

What happens when a man's collection outgrows every method of counting except weight?

What happens when a man who sleeps on a sofa because his bedroom is full of manuscripts finally has to move houses?