of steamers and railways. He took the carpet-bag, opened it, and slipped into it a goodly roll of Bank of England notes, which would pass wherever he might go.

`You have forgotten nothing?' asked he.

`Nothing, monsieur.'

`My mackintosh and cloak?'

`Here they are.'

`Good. Take this carpet-bag,' handing it to Passepartout. `Take good care of it, for there are twenty thousand pounds in it.'

Passepartout nearly dropped the bag, as if the twenty thousand pounds were in gold, and weighted him down.

Master and man then descended, the street-door was double-locked, and at the end of Saville Row they took a cab and drove rapidly to Charing Cross. The cab stopped before the railway station at twenty minutes past eight. Passepartout jumped off the box and followed his master, who, after paying the cabman, was about to enter the station, when a poor beggar-woman, with a child in her arms, her naked feet smeared with mud, her head covered with a wretched bonnet, from which hung a tattered feather, and her shoulders shrouded in a ragged shawl, approached, and mournfully asked for alms.

Mr Fogg took out the twenty guineas he had just won at whist, and handed them to the beggar, saying, `Here, my good woman. I'm glad that I met you'; and passed on.

Passepartout had a moist sensation about the eyes; his masters action touched his susceptible heart.

Two first-class tickets for Paris having been speedily purchased, Mr Fogg was crossing the station to the train, when he perceived his five friends of the Reform.

`Well, gentlemen,' said he, `I'm off, you see; and if you will examine my passport when I get back, you will be able to judge whether I have accomplished the journey agreed upon.'

`Oh, that would be quite unnecessary, Mr Fogg,' said Ralph politely. `We will trust your word, as a gentleman of honour.'

`You do not forget when you are due in London again?' asked Stuart.

`In eighty days; on Saturday, the 21st of December, 1872, at a quarter before nine p.m. Good-bye, gentlemen.

Phileas Fogg and his servant seated themselves in a first-class carriage at twenty minutes before nine; five minutes later the whistle screamed, and the train slowly glided out of the Station.

The night was dark, and a fine, steady rain was falling. Phileas Fogg, snugly ensconced in his corner, did not open his lips. Passepartout, not yet recovered from his stupefaction, clung mechanically to the carpet-bag, with its enormous treasure.

Just as the train was whirling through Sydenham, Passepartout suddenly uttered a cry of despair.

`What's the matter?' asked Mr Fogg.

`Alas! In my hurry - I - I forgot--'

`What?'