his hat, he ran along the street as never man was seen to run before, overturning passers-by, rushing over the sidewalk like a waterspout.

In three minutes he was in Saville Row again, and staggered back into Mr. Fogg's room.

He could not speak.

“What is the matter?” asked Mr. Fogg.

“My master!” gasped Passepartout — ”marriage — impossible — ”

“Impossible?”

“Impossible — for to-morrow.”

“Why so?”

“Because to-morrow — is Sunday!”

“Monday,”