was the seventy-sixth since Phileas Fogg's departure,
and no news of him had been received. Was he dead?
Had he abandoned the effort, or was he continuing
his journey along the route agreed upon? And would
he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a
quarter before nine in the evening, on the threshold
of the Reform Club saloon?

The anxiety in which, for three days, London so-
ciety existed, cannot be described. Telegrams were
sent to America and Asia for news of Phileas Fogg.
Messengers were despatched to the house in Saville
Row morning and evening. No news. The police
were ignorant what had become of the detective, Fix,
who had so unfortunately followed up a false
scent.

Bets increased, nevertheless, in number and value.
Phileas Fogg, like a racehorse, was drawing near his
last turning-point. The bonds were quoted, no longer
at a hundred below par, but at twenty, at ten, and at
five; and paralytic old Lord Albermarle bet even in
his favour.

A great crowd was collected in Pall Mall and the
neighbouring streets on Saturday evening; it seemed
like a multitude of brokers permanently established
around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded,
and everywhere disputes, discussions, and financial
transactions were going on. The police had great
difficulty in keeping back the crowd, and as the hour

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