The door opened, and he saw Aouda, Passepartout, Fix, rushing towards him.
Fix was out of breath, his hair all disordered, and he could not speak.
"Sir," he stammered, "sir—pardon—an unfortunate resemblance—robber arrested three days ago—you—free———!"
Phileas Fogg was free! He went to the detective, looked him well in the face, and, with the only rapid movement that he ever had made or ever would make in his life, he drew both his arms back, and then, with the precision of an automaton, he struck the unfortunate detective with both his fists.
"Well hit!" cried Passepartout, who, allowing himself an atrocious flow of words, quite worthy of a Frenchman, added: "Zounds! this is what might be called a fine application of English fists!"
Fix, prostrate, did not utter a word. He only got what he deserved. But Mr. Fogg, Aouda, and Passepartout immediately left the custom house. They jumped into a carriage, and in a few minutes arrived at the depot. Phileas Fogg asked if there was an express train ready to start for London.
It was forty minutes past two. The express had left thirty-five minutes before.
Phileas Fogg then ordered a special train. There were several locomotives of great speed with steam up; but, owing to the exigencies of the service, the special train could not leave the depot before three o'clock.
At three o'clock, Phileas Fogg, after saying a few words to the engineer about a certain reward to be won, moved on in the direction of London, in the company of the young woman and his faithful servant.
The distance which separates Liverpool from London must be accomplished in five hours and a half—a very feasible thing when the road is clear on the whole route. But there were compulsory delays, and when the gentleman arrived at the depot all the clocks in London were striking ten minutes of nine.
Phileas Fogg, after having accomplished this tour of the world, arrived five minutes behind time!
He had lost his bet.
