Saturday, December 21st, 3:01 PM, 1872

 I now write at 3:01 PM on Saturday, 21st of December, as we are on the train to London, in the company of Aouda, Phileas Fogg, and Passepartout.

Liverpool Station

 It was at two thirty-three that Fix had run into the custom house and released Fogg, admitting that the real robber, he just found out, had been caught three days ago! Phileas maintained his cool, but, to the delight of Passepartout, drew back his arms and sent Fix rolling.

 We got to the station, but our train had already left, and none other was available. We had to order a special train. The engineer had said at first that the train could not possibly leave until three o'clock, but that was nothing a handsome reward could not fix.

 Now we speed along to London, our hearts in our mouths, as delay after delay brings us behind hand more and more minutes.

 I see London in the distance! I will stop writing here to see my old city again. I will write again when we are home safe and sound!