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Chapter Two

Jules knew by rote the precise path he should take from the boat to the train to Fogg's house on Saville Row. On better days he'd been able to take a carriage or cab, but on days on which his purse had been thin - more often than not - he'd walked the better part of the distance from the last station. He'd kept to his path, never strayed, and had been left alone by the citizens of London, more or less.

It was the 'more or less' part that caused him difficulty at the moment. Having reached the ground floor of the hostel, and assuring himself that there was no one from the League or anywhere else waiting to accost him just outside the front door, he found himself lost.

"Any idea where we are?"

Gaspar tumbled out of the doorway after him, shifted the rucksack onto his back, and then glanced down either side of the narrow street. "I think it's called 'Lambeth.' We're south of the Thames - I know that."

The morning chill had yet to burn off; Jules tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat when the cold stung his fingers. The area was as different from the well-kept townhouses on Saville Row as night from day. Chimneys belched heavy black soot, which covered the building facades . . . even the cobblestone street held a light dusting of ash. The people looked no less affected by their surroundings, hunched over, keeping to themselves. If anyone glanced at the pair of them, it was a sidelong, measuring look.

He didn't like to think what they might be measuring him for.

Gaspar stepped forward before Jules could stop him, accosting a man with a burlap sack over his shoulder. "Excuse me, Monsieur, could you tell me--"

"No," warned Jules quickly.

But it was too late. The laborer turned on Gaspar and cuffed him alongside the head, sending him back at least three paces on the sidewalk. "Lousy French," the man growled angrily beneath his breath, when Gaspar stumbled and fell heavily on his seat.

Grabbing hold of Gaspar's shoulder, Jules hauled the student to his feet. "I beg your pardon, sir--" he began, in English.

"Oy, 'sir' now, innit?" The man spat to one side, barely missing the toe of Jules' boot. "Naw wat so high 'n mighty, 'en?"

Sudden embarrassment, as well as no small amount of anger, made his cheeks burn, but if his journeys with his friends had taught him nothing else it was to pick his battles wisely. Gaspar appeared bewildered and began to sputter, but Jules placed a hand on his arm, stopping him from moving forward. There seemed to be little enough else to draw interest in this area, which was heavily trafficked at this early morning hour and not with the sort of person who might be reasoned with. Other men were crossing the street to see what was happening.

"Run," Jules whispered in Gaspar's ear, then took off past the laborer, giving the man a wide berth. Other pedestrians had stopped and he raced past them as well, glancing over his shoulder briefly only to assure himself that Gaspar was just behind him. A chorus of jeers and guffaws accompanied their flight, but other than a rock or two and a couple of steps toward them, there were no immediate signs of real pursuit.

They had turned down at least two cross streets before they finally paused. Jules peered around the corner, taking a careful look behind them, when Gaspar struck him hard in the shoulder.

"Coward!" he accused. "He insulted us."

Relieved that they weren't being followed, Jules leaned against the wall and pushed Gaspar away from him with one hand. "I should have left you there and let him knock some sense into you, then?"

"I couldn't have taken him on my own," agreed Gaspar reluctantly. "But the two of us--"

"Would have been thrashed within an inch of our lives," countered Jules, returning to English again. "There were too many of them."

"It was a matter of French honor."

"It was a matter of us not getting our heads knocked in. Rebecca says sometimes it's better to lose the battle if it means winning the war."

The color seemed to drain from Gaspar's face and he stepped back. "Rebecca," he noted quietly. "One of your English Foggs?"

"Yes." Jules met his gaze evenly.

"A strange thing for an English lady to say."

"Rebecca isn't--" Jules closed his eyes for a moment and bit his lip. What could he say? That Rebecca Fogg was an agent of the British Secret Service was a piece of information he'd sworn to protect.

"Isn't what?" pressed Gaspar.

"Isn't your average English lady." With a sigh, Jules opened his eyes and met Gaspar's worried gaze. "She's special. She's . . . magnificent."

"Magnificent, as only a dream can be." Gaspar took a long, slow breath, still watching Jules with cautious eyes. "When I hear you speak about them, they seem so real."

"They are real," said Jules, tapping Gaspar on the shoulder and forcing what he hoped would be an encouraging smile. "And I promised to prove it to you. Going north should get us to Saville Row. I think if we cross the Vauxhall Bridge, then work our way to St. James Park, I can find Fogg's townhouse from there."

"You are either brilliantly mad, Jules, or madly brilliant." Gaspar stared at him a moment, then inclined his head toward the street. "All right, I'll follow you. And heaven help me if we actually do meet these people - I have no idea what one is supposed to say to figments of a friend's imagination."

Jules chuckled at Gaspar's anxious sigh. "You'll have the whole walk to Saville Row to think about it," he promised. "That should be more than enough time to come up with something."

It was not, in fact, so long of a walk as he might have feared. Now confidant that he was on vaguely recognizable ground, Jules led Gaspar through the costermongers' carts and the carriage traffic almost expertly. They even stopped at a pastry shop and spent a handful of pence - what Gaspar called 'English money' - on cinnamon buns.

"It's a waste of money," complained Jules, watching Gaspar inhale the sticky dough. "When we arrive at Fogg's house, Passepartout will set out the most fabulous breakfast imaginable."

"I would rather rely on--" Gaspar finished his roll and licked his fingers, "pastry in hand than food provided by your phantom friends."

"There'll only be more for me, then." With a sigh, Jules handed over the roll he'd purchased for himself. Gaspar eyed him thoughtfully, giving Jules a second's pause to reconsider, but when Jules shook his head the pastry disappeared as quickly as the other had.

A public water trough on a street they passed gave Gaspar a moment to clean off the remnants of breakfast - Jules wanted his friend presentable, at the very least - and they were soon walking up Albany, heading toward Saville Row. He was never so glad to pass through the wrought iron gate or knock on Fogg's door as he was at that very moment.

"Now you'll see," he promised Gaspar, with a wide grin.

Gaspar merely rolled his eyes in answer then folded his arms, a veritable Thomas waiting to be convinced of the Truth.

That the door was opened by someone other than Passepartout was surprising, but not completely unexpected - he'd known Fogg to employ occasional staff as needed, to assist Passepartout with other chores and Jules hadn't yet worked out the strict code of duties assigned to various members of the serving staff.

"Yes?" asked the gentleman at the door. He was dressed in black, with a gray waistcoat, his hair the color of coal. The eyes had been courteous at first, but grew colder and more formal as he studied Jules' apparel and then caught sight of Gaspar. "Service entrance is below."

"No, I'm here to see Phileas Fogg." Jules shot a grin over his shoulder at Gaspar. "Tell him Jules Verne is here to see him."

"Phileas Fogg?" The butler narrowed his eyes. "There's no one here by that name, sir." The last was said curtly, implying the term was being used more from form than correct function. "Perhaps you have the wrong address."

The door started to close. Bewildered, Jules shot out his hand, holding the door open. "No - no, this is Fogg's house. Phileas Fogg. Where's Passepartout?"

The butler placed both hands on the door in an attempt to close it. "There's no one here by that name. If you'd like to leave a card, the master will--"

"Jules--" said Gaspar in warning, placing a hand on Jules' shoulder.

Shaking off Gaspar's hold, Jules placed both hands on the door and fought the butler for possession, bracing his foot on the doorjamb. One of the butler's hands slipped and the door flew open, pulling Jules with it. He stumbled past the butler and into the foyer of the townhouse, sliding momentarily on the rug covering the parquet floor.

The wallpaper was different - the oriental pattern replaced with vibrant blue flowers. The stand for canes and umbrellas had been brass, but a new elephant foot container was in its place. Even the gas fixtures were gone, the crystal having been replaced by etched glass.

"Help!" cried the butler, hanging out the open front door. "Police! Burglars!"

Gaspar grabbed Jules' arm and pulled him toward the door. "Come on, Jules! Do you want to get arrested?"

"No - it's wrong. It's all wrong." Jules wrenched Gaspar away from him and headed into the parlor, but it, too had been changed. The bookshelves, the desk, the sideboard - they were all gone and replaced by white-lacquered furniture. The walls were covered with gold leaf, embossed paper and a myriad of framed photographs of people who were completely unfamiliar to Jules. "Fogg?" he called aloud. "Fogg? Passepartout? Where are you? What's happened?"

Jules turned to see a man with a revolver enter the room - a stranger only half-dressed, waistcoat open and unbuttoned, feet bare. His long mustache quivered as he announced, "Don't move! I've a gun on you, young man."

Heedless of the danger, Jules took a step toward him. "What have you done with Fogg and Passepartout! And Rebecca - Rebecca was here as well - what have you--?"

The gun muzzle was squarely placed against Jules' chest. Suddenly aware of his danger, he took a deep breath, eyes wide as he focused on the unfamiliar face at the other end of the gun.

"Thought that might get your attention," said the man smugly. "Are you mad? Opium-crazed, perhaps, hmn? Brown? Brown - don't stand there screaming for help, run out and grab a--"

The rest of the sentence was lost in the 'crash' that occurred as Gaspar bashed the gunman in the head with a blue-china vase that imploded on impact. "Run!" he shouted at Jules, then grabbed his arm when Jules failed to respond immediately and tugged on him.

"I can't leave!" countered Jules, bending down over the gunman. "I have to find out what's happened to Fogg, Rebecca, and Passepartout. They've been kidnapped, I know it!"

The sound of boots in the hall and the screech of a police whistle caught his attention. Jules looked up to see Gaspar grabbed from behind by a stalwart uniformed officer, while another squeezed past and headed for himself. He reached for the gun, which had fallen to the floor, but something swished past his head and he fell back a step. He ducked and pivoted as the policeman came at him again.

"Jules!" called Gaspar, having given up his own struggle for freedom.

The warning came too late. Seeing the policeman lunge toward him out of the corner of his eye, Jules turned - directly into the swing of another policeman's blackjack.

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End of Part 2

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