Phileas Fogg was in prison.
He had been locked inside the Custom House at Liverpool and was due to be taken to London the following day.
When Passepartout saw his master arrested, he nearly attacked Fix.
“Let me go!” he shouted. “You’ve ruined my master!”
Several policemen held him back.
Aouda was stunned. She could not understand how everything had changed so suddenly.
Passepartout explained what had happened.
“Fix has arrested Mr. Fogg because he believes him to be a robber,” he said bitterly. “He thinks my master is the man he has been hunting all this time.”
“But that is impossible!” Aouda cried. “Mr. Fogg is innocent!”
“I know that, madam. But Fix does not.”
Aouda’s heart broke at the injustice. She had no idea how they could save Fogg. Unable to do anything, she began to weep.
As for Fix, he believed he had simply done his duty.
Whether Phileas Fogg was guilty or innocent made no difference to him. His job was to arrest the man he believed to be the robber.
Passepartout soon began blaming himself.
“If only I had told Mr. Fogg the truth about Fix,” he said miserably. “I knew Fix was following us, but I kept it secret because I was afraid of causing trouble.”
He covered his face with his hands.
“If I had warned him, everything might have been different. Mr. Fogg could have proved his innocence. Fix would never have followed us all the way to England just to arrest him.”
Passepartout was overwhelmed with guilt.
“I’ve caused this disaster,” he sobbed. “I’ve ruined him!”
He wept until he could hardly see.
Aouda and Passepartout remained outside the Custom House despite the cold. Neither of them wanted to leave. They desperately wanted to see Fogg again.
Mr. Fogg’s situation seemed hopeless.
He had reached Liverpool at twenty minutes before noon on December 21. He had until fifteen minutes before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club.
That gave him nine hours and fifteen minutes.
The journey from Liverpool to London normally took about six hours.
There was still just enough time.
But now he was behind bars.
Inside the Custom House, Fogg sat motionless on a wooden bench.
He was perfectly calm.
He showed no anger and made no complaint.
Yet no one could know what was happening inside his mind.
Was he furious beneath that quiet exterior?
Was some terrible anger building inside him?
Or had he completely lost hope?
No one could tell.
Fogg simply waited.
His watch lay carefully on the table before him.
He watched the hands move forward, minute by minute.
He said nothing.
His face was hard and serious.
The situation was brutally simple.
If Phileas Fogg was an honest man, he was about to lose everything.
If he really was a criminal, then he had finally been caught.
For a moment, he seemed to consider escape.
He slowly walked around the room, examining it.
But there was nowhere to go.
The door was locked.
The windows were protected by heavy iron bars.
Fogg returned to his seat.
He took his journal from his pocket and opened it.
Under the entry:
“21st December, Saturday, Liverpool”
he wrote:
“80th day, 11:40 a.m.”
Then he closed the journal and waited.
The Custom House clock struck one.
Fogg looked at his watch.
He realized that his watch was two hours fast.
Two hours!
That changed everything.
If he could get onto an express train immediately, he might still reach London and arrive at the Reform Club by 8:45 that evening.
For the first time, a slight wrinkle appeared on his forehead.
At 2:33 p.m., Fogg suddenly heard strange noises outside.
Doors opened hurriedly.
Then he heard Passepartout’s voice.
Immediately afterward, he heard Fix.
Fogg’s eyes brightened for a moment.
The door flew open.
Passepartout rushed inside with Aouda and Fix.
Fix was out of breath. His hair was disordered, and he looked as though he had been running at full speed.
He could barely speak.
“Sir,” he gasped. “Mr. Fogg, forgive me. There has been a terrible mistake.”
Fogg stared at him.
“The resemblance was misleading,” Fix continued. “The real robber was arrested three days ago. You are free!”
For a moment, no one moved.
Phileas Fogg was free.
He walked toward Fix.
He looked directly into the detective’s eyes.
Then, with the fastest movement anyone had ever seen from the normally controlled Fogg, he pulled back his arm and punched Fix squarely in the face.
Fix crashed to the floor.
“Well done!” Passepartout shouted. “Parbleu! Now that’s what I call an English punch!”
Fix remained on the floor without saying a word.
He knew he had deserved it.
Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout immediately left the Custom House.
They jumped into a cab and hurried to the railway station.
“Is there an express train to London?” Fogg asked.
“It is 2:40,” the station employee replied.
“The express left thirty-five minutes ago.”
Fogg did not hesitate.
“Then arrange a special train.”
Several fast locomotives were available.
But the railway system could not get a special train ready until three o’clock.
Fogg had no choice but to wait.
At exactly three, he, Aouda, and Passepartout boarded the special train.
Fogg offered the engineer a large reward if he could make the journey as quickly as possible.
The train thundered toward London.
They had only five and a half hours.
Under normal circumstances, that would have been enough.
But the journey was not smooth.
The train was forced to stop several times.
Every delay cost them precious minutes.
Fogg remained silent throughout the journey.
At last, the train reached London.
Fogg stepped onto the platform at the terminus.
At that very moment, the clocks throughout London were striking ten minutes before nine.
Fogg had traveled around the entire world.
But he was five minutes late.
He had lost the wager.