`I mean that it is a piece of shameful trickery. They might as well waylay Mr Fogg and put his money in their pockets!'

`That's just what we count on doing.'

`It's a conspiracy, then,' cried Passepartout, who became more and more excited as the liquor mounted in his head, for he drank without perceiving it. `A real conspiracy! And gentlemen, too. Bah!'

Fix began to be puzzled.

`Members of the Reform Club!' continued Passepartout. `You must know, Monsieur Fix, that my master is an honest man, and that, when he makes a wager, he tries to win it fairly!'

`But who do you think I am?' asked Fix, looking at him intently.

`Parbleu! An agent of the members of the Reform Club, sent out here to interrupt my master's journey. But, though I found you out some time ago, I've taken good care to say nothing about it to Mr Fogg.'

`He knows nothing, then?'

`Nothing,' replied Passepartout, again emptying his glass.

The detective passed his hand across his forehead, hesitating before he spoke again. What should he do? Passepartout's mistake seemed sincere, but it made his design more difficult. It was evident that the servant was not the master's accomplice, as Fix had been inclined to suspect.

`Well,' said the detective to himself, `as he is not an accomplice, he will help me.'

He had no time to lose: Fogg must be detained at Hong Kong, so he resolved to make a clean breast of it.

`Listen to me,' said Fix abruptly. `I am not, as you think, an agent of the members of the Reform Club--'

`Bah!' retorted Passepartout, with an air of raillery.

`I am a police detective, sent out here by the London office.'

`You, a detective?'

`I will prove it. Here is my commission.'

Passepartout was speechless with astonishment when Fix displayed this document, the genuineness of which could not be doubted.

`Mr Fogg's wager,' resumed Fix, `is only a pretext, of which you and the gentlemen of the Reform are dupes. He had a motive for securing your innocent complicity.'

`But why?'

`Listen. On the 28th of last September a robbery of fifty-five thousand pounds was committed at the Bank of England by a person whose description was fortunately secured. Here is this description; it answers exactly to that of Mr Phileas Fogg.'

`What nonsense!' cried Passepartout, striking the table with his fist. `My master is the most honourable of men!'