away from China. Thus he found himself the next morning on the deck of the Carnatic , and eagerly inhaling the exhilarating sea-breeze. The pure air sobered him. He began to collect his sense, which he found a difficult task; but at last he recalled the events of the evening before, Fix’s revelation, and the opium-house.
“It is evident,” said he to himself, “that I have been abominably drunk! What will Mr. Fogg say? At least I have not missed the steamer, which is the most important thing.”
Then, as Fix occurred to him: “As for that rascal, I hope we are well rid of him, and that he has not dared, as he proposed, to follow us on board the Carnatic . A detective on the track of Mr. Fogg, accused of robbing the Bank of England! Pshaw! Mr. Fogg is no more a robber than I am a murderer.”
Should he divulge Fix’s real errand to his master? Would it do to tell the part the detective was playing? Would it not be better to wait until Mr. Fogg reached London again, and then impart to him that an agent of the metropolitan police had been following him round the world, and have a good laugh over it? No doubt; at least, it was worth considering. The first thing to do was to find Mr. Fogg, and apologise for his singular behaviour.
Passepartout got up and proceeded, as well as he could with the rolling of the steamer, to the afterdeck. He saw no one who resembled either his master or Aouda. “Good!” muttered he; “Aouda has not got up yet, and Mr. Fogg has probably found some partners at whist.”
He descended to the saloon. Mr. Fogg was not there. Passepartout had only, however, to ask the purser the number of his master’s stateroom. The purser replied that he did not know any passenger by the name of Fogg.