# Works of Jules Verne/Round the World in Eighty Days/Chapter 36

CHAPTER XXXVI IN WHICH "PHILEAS FOGG" IS AGAIN AT A PREMIUM IN THE MARKET
It is time to tell here what a change of opinion was produced in the United Kingdom when they learned of the arrest of the true robber of the bank, a certain James Strand, which took place in Edinburgh on the 17th of December.
Three days before, Phileas Fogg was a criminal whom the police were pursuing to the utmost, and now he was the most honest gentleman, accomplishing mathematically his eccentric tour around the world.
​What an effect, what an excitement in the papers! All the betters for or against, who had already forgotten this affair, revived as if by magic. All the transactions became of value. All the engagements were renewed, and it must be said that betting was resumed with new energy. The name of Phileas Fogg was again at a premium on the market.
The five colleagues of the gentleman, at the Reform Club, passed these three days in some uneasiness. Would this Phileas Fogg, whom they had forgotten, reappear before their eyes? Where was he at this moment? On the 17th of December—the day that James Strand was arrested—it was seventy-six days since Phileas Fogg started, and no news from him! Was he dead? Had he given up the effort, or was he continuing his course as agreed upon? And would he appear on Saturday, the 21st of December, at a quarter before nine in the evening, the very impersonation of exactness, on the threshold of the saloon of the Reform Club?
We must give up the effort to depict the anxiety in which for three days all of London society lived. They sent dispatches to America, to Asia, to get news of Phileas Fogg. They sent morning and evening to watch the house in Saville Row. Nothing there. The police themselves did not know what had become of the detective Fix, who had so unfortunately thrown himself on a false scent. This did not prevent bets from being entered into anew on a larger scale. Phileas Fogg, like a race-horse, was coming to the last turn. He was quoted no longer at one hundred, but at twenty, ten, five; and the old paralytic Lord Albemarle bet even in his favor.
So that on Saturday evening there was a crowd in Pall Mall and in the neighboring streets. It might have been supposed that there was an immense crowd of brokers permanently established around the Reform Club. Circulation was impeded. They discussed, disputed, and cried the prices of "Phileas Fogg," like they did those of English Consols. The policemen had much difficulty in keeping the crowd back, and in proportion as the hour approached at which Phileas Fogg ought to arrive, the excitement took incredible proportions.
This evening, the five colleagues of the gentleman were ​assembled in the grand saloon of the Reform Club. The two bankers, John Sullivan and Samuel Fallentin, the engineer Andrew Stuart, Gauthier Ralph, the directors of the Bank of England, and the brewer, Thomas Flanagan, all waited with anxiety.
At the moment that the clock in the grand saloon indicated twenty-five minutes past eight, Andrew Stuart, rising, said:
"Gentleman, in twenty minutes the time agreed upon between Mr. Phileas Fogg and ourselves will have expired."
"At what hour did the last train arrive from Liverpool?" asked Thomas Flanagan.
"At twenty-three minutes after seven," replied Gauthier Ralph, "and the next train does not arrive until ten minutes after twelve, midnight."
"Well, gentlemen," continued Andrew Stuart, "if Phileas Fogg had arrived in the train at twenty-three minutes after seven, he would already be here. We can then consider we have won the bet."
"Let us wait before deciding," replied Samuel Fallentin.
"You know that our colleague is an oddity of the first order. His exactness in everything is well known. He never arrives too late or too soon, and he will appear here at the very last minute, or I shall be very much surprised."
"And I," said Andrew Stewart, who was, as always, very nervous, "would not believe it was he even if I saw him."
"In fact," replied Thomas Flanagan, "Phileas Fogg's project was a senseless one. However exact he might be, he could not prevent the occurrence of inevitable delays, and a delay of but two or three days would be sufficient to compromise the tour."
"You will notice besides," added John Sullivan, "that we have received no news from our colleague, and yet telegraph lines were not wanting upon his route."
"Gentlemen, he has lost," replied Andrew Stuart, "he has lost a hundred times! You know, besides, that the China—the only steamer from New York that he could take for Liverpool to be of any use to him—arrived yesterday. Now, here is the list of passengers, published by the Shipping Gazette, and the name of Phileas Fogg is not among them. Admitting the most favorable chances, our ​colleague has scarcely reached America! I calculate twenty days, at least, as the time that he will be behind, and old Lord Albermarle will be minus his five thousand pounds!"
"It is evident," replied Gauthier Ralph, "and to-morrow we have only to present to Baring Brothers Mr. Fogg's check."
At this moment, the clock in the saloon struck forty minutes after eight.
"Five minutes yet," said Andrew Stuart.
The five colleagues looked at each other. It may be believed that their hearts beat a little more rapidly, for, even for good players, it was a great risk. But they did not betray themselves, for at Samuel Fallentin's suggestion, they seated themselves at a card table.
"I would not give my part of four thousand pounds in the bet," said Andrew Stuart, seating himself, "even if I was offered three thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine!"
At this moment the hands noted forty-two minutes after eight.
The players took up their cards, but their eyes were constantly fixed upon the clock. It may be asserted that, notwithstanding their security, the minutes had never seemed so long to them!
"Forty-three minutes after eight," said Thomas Flanagan, cutting the cards which Gauthier Ralph presented to him.
Then there was a moment's silence. The immense saloon of the club was quiet. But outside they heard the hubbub of the crowd, above which were sometimes heard loud cries. The pendulum of the clock was beating the seconds with mathematical regularity, and every player could count them as they struck his ear.
"Forty-four minutes after eight," said John Sullivan in a voice in which was heard an involuntary emotion.
One more minute and the bet would be won. Andrew Stuart and his colleagues played no longer. They had abandoned their cards! They were eagerly counting the seconds!
At the fortieth second, nothing. At the fiftieth still nothing!
At the fifty-fifth, there was a roaring like that of thunder outside, shouts, hurrahs, and even curses kept up in one
​The players rose.
At the fifty-seventh second, the door of the saloon opened, and the pendulum had not beat the sixtieth second, when Phileas Fogg appeared, followed by an excited crowd, who had forced an entrance into the club, and in his calm voice, he said:
"Gentlemen, here I am!"
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