"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 his 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!"
"How can you tell? You know scarcely anything about him. You went into
his service the day he came away; and he came away on a foolish pretext,
without trunks, and carrying a large amount in banknotes. And yet you
are bold enough to assert that he is an honest man!"
"Yes, yes," repeated the poor fellow, mechanically.
"Would you like to be arrested as his accomplice?"
Passepartout, overcome by what he had heard, held his head
between his hands, and did not dare to look at the detective.
Phileas Fogg, the saviour of Aouda, that brave and generous man,
a robber! And yet how many presumptions there were against him!
Passepartout essayed to reject the suspicions which forced themselves
upon his mind; he did not wish to believe that his master was guilty.
"Well, what do you want of me?" said he, at last, with an effort.
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