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Madame Bentley had discreetly left the room while the men were speaking. Fogg noted her absence and nodded to himself. "Good! What time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes after eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.
"You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg.
"Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible—"
"You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service."
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn.
Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville Row, or so he thought. On hearing a soft sound he turned his head and began to smile. Madame Bentley's curvaceous ankle was dangling invitingly from the bedroom door. Following his instincts, he made haste toward the lovely limb and the nest of honey at its juncture.
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