f
his innocence, and at any rate the detective would not in that case
have travelled at Mr. Fogg's expense, and arrested him the moment he
landed. As he thought of all this Passe-partout was ready to shoot
himself. Neither he nor Aouda left the Custom House, notwithstanding
the cold weather. They were anxious to see Mr. Fogg once more.

As for that gentleman he was completely ruined, and at the very moment
he had succeeded in his attempt. The arrest was fatal. He had just
eight hours and forty-five minutes to reach the Reform Club, and six
hours would have sufficed to get to London.

Could anyone have seen Mr. Fogg they would have found him seated
calmly on a form in the Custom House, as cool as ever. Resigned is
scarcely the word to apply to him, but to all appearance he was as
unmoved as ever. If he was raging within he did not betray any
symptoms of anger. Was it possible that he still hoped to succeed?

At any rate he had carefully placed his watch on the table before him,
and was watching it intently. Not a word escaped him, but his eyes
wore a curious fixed expression. Honest or not, he was caught and
ruined.

Was he thinking of escape, did he think of looking for an outlet? It
was not unlikely, for every now and then he got up and walked round
the room. But the door and window were both firmly closed and barred.
He sat down, and drawing his journal from his pocket, read:

"21st December, Saturday, Liverpool."

To this he added--

"Eightieth day, 11.40 a.m."

Then he waited. The clock of the Custom House struck one. Mr. Fogg
perceived that his watch was two minutes fast.

Two o'clock came! Admitting that he could at that moment get into an
express train, he might yet arrive in London and reach the Reform Club
in time.

At 2.33 he heard a noise outside of opening doors. He could
distinguish Passe-partout and Fix's voices. Mr. Fogg's eyes glittered.
The door was flung open and Mrs. Aouda, Fix, and Passe-partout rushed
in.

"Ah sir!" exclaimed Fix, hurrying up to the prisoner, "a thousand
pardons--an unfortunate resemblance! The true thief is arrested. You
are free, free!"

Phileas Fogg was free. He walked quietly up to the detective, looked
him steadily in the face for a second, and with a movement of his arm
knocked him down!

"Well hit!" exclaimed Passe-partout. "By jingo, that's a proper
application of the art of self-defence!"

Fix lay flat on the ground, and did not say a wor