“Can we enter the harbour?”
“Not under three hours. Only at high tide.”
“Stay,” replied Mr. Fogg calmly, without betraying in his features that by a supreme inspiration he was about to attempt once more to conquer ill-fortune.
Queenstown is the Irish port at which the trans-Atlantic steamers stop to put off the mails. These mails are carried to Dublin by express trains always held in readiness to start; from Dublin they are sent on to Liverpool by the most rapid boats, and thus gain twelve hours on the Atlantic steamers.
Phileas Fogg counted on gaining twelve hours in the same way.
Instead of arriving at Liverpool the next evening by the Henrietta, he would be there by noon, and would therefore have time to reach London before a quarter before nine in the evening.
The Henrietta entered Queenstown Harbour at one o’clock in the morning, it then being high tide; and Phileas Fogg, after being grasped heartily by the hand by Captain Speedy, left that gentleman on the levelled hulk of his craft, which was still worth half what he had sold it for.
The party went on shore at once.
Fix was greatly tempted to arrest Mr. Fogg on the spot; but he did not.
Why?
What struggle was going on within him?
Had he changed his mind about “his man”?
Did he understand that he had made a grave mistake?
He did not, however, abandon Mr. Fogg.
They all got upon the train, which was just ready to start, at half-past one; at dawn of day they were in Dublin; and they lost no time in embarking on a steamer which, disdaining to rise upon the waves, invariably cut through them.
Phileas Fogg at last disembarked on the Liverpool quay, at twenty minutes before twelve, 21st December.
He was only six hours distant from London.
But at this moment Fix came up, put his hand upon Mr. Fogg’s shoulder, and, showing his warrant, said,
“You are really Phileas Fogg?”
“I am.”
“I arrest you in the Queen’s name!”
Chapter XXXIV
In which Phileas Fogg at Last Reaches London
Phileas Fogg was in prison.
He had been shut up in the Custom House, and he was to be transferred to London the next day.
Passepartout, when he saw his master arrested, would have fallen upon Fix had he not been held back by some policemen.
Aouda was thunderstruck at the suddenness of an event which she could not understand.
Passepartout explained to her how it was that the honest and courageous Fogg was arrested as a robber.
The young woman’s heart revolted against so heinous a charge, and when she saw that she could attempt to do nothing to save her protector, she wept bitterly.
As for Fix, he had arrested Mr. Fogg because it was his duty, whether Mr. Fogg were guilty or not.
The thought then struck Passepartout, that he was the cause of this new misfortune!
Had he not concealed Fix’s errand from his master?
When Fix revealed his true character and purpose, why had he not told Mr. Fogg?
If the latter had been warned, he would no doubt have given Fix proof of his innocence, and satisfied him of his mistake; at least, Fix would not have continued his journey at the expense and on the heels of his master, only to arrest him the moment he set foot on English soil.
Passepartout wept till he was blind, and felt like blowing his brains out.
Aouda and he had remained, despite the cold, under the portico of the Custom House.
Neither wished to leave the place; both were anxious to see Mr. Fogg again.
That gentleman was really ruined, and that at the moment when he was about to attain his end.
This arrest was fatal.
Having arrived at Liverpool at twenty minutes before twelve on the 21st of December, he had till a quarter before nine that evening to reach the Reform Club, that is, nine hours and a quarter; the journey from Liverpool to London was six hours.
If anyone, at this moment, had entered the Custom House, he would have found Mr. Fogg seated, motionless, calm, and without apparent anger, upon a wooden bench.
He was not, it is true, resigned; but this last blow failed to force him into an outward betrayal of any emotion.
Was he being devoured by one of those secret rages, all the more terrible because contained, and which only burst forth, with an irresistible force, at the last moment?
No one could tell.
There he sat, calmly waiting — for what?
Did he still cherish hope?
Did he still believe, now that the door of this prison was closed upon him, that he would succeed?
However that may have been, Mr. Fogg carefully put his watch upon the table, and observed its advancing hands.
Not a word escaped his lips, but his look was singularly set and stern.
The situation, in any event, was a terrible one, and might be thus stated: if Phileas Fogg was honest he was ruined; if he was a knave, he was caught.