The Amazing Adventure of the Small White Dog

By Isharell aka Melissa L. Harris

Chapter 1 of 6:   An Unwelcome Guest

Passepartout opened the door to the visitors with his usual beaming smile.  

"Oh, Miss Rebecca, Master Jules," he cried warmly, stepping aside. "Please come in.  You are just in time for the feast!"  They followed him into the house.                    

"Feast, Passepartout?" Rebecca asked, as the valet took Verne's coat.

"But, yes," he exclaimed happily. "My sister, she bring us a feast!"

Rebecca and Jules went into the dining room.  Phileas was already there, staring in  bemusement at the baskets of food on the table.  Jules' eyes brightened.  "Oh, this is wonderful," he exclaimed, beginning to rummage through the baskets.   "I am *starving*, Passepartout.  That sister of yours is a marvel."

Passepartout beamed, "Ah, yes.  But is not all from my sister," he paused as Jules, mouth already full, looked up.  "Today she bring her Society friends by the house and they all decide to make a little something."

        

Rebecca laughed, "Well, I am amazed at their generosity."

"And they're all good cooks, too," mumbled Jules. "Wish I had a sister with friends like that."  He gestured at Phileas with a chicken leg, "Dig in, Phileas.  It's free."

Phileas, with a slight look of distaste, handed Jules a plate and a napkin and told him tartly to sit down.  Jules grinned at Rebecca, who was daintily eating a pastry.

"Um, Phileas," she said with a cock of her head, "when did you get the dog?"

"Dog?"  Phileas looked around in alarm, "What dog?"  His eye fell on a small, white, longhaired Maltese, happily cavorting at Jules' feet, begging for bites.  "Passepartout!"  The valet flinched.  He had been on the verge of slipping out of the room when the sound of his master's voice, raised in tones of strident annoyance, stopped him in his tracks.  

He turned with an ingratiating (and rather silly) grin.  "Yes, Master?"

"What is that dog doing here, Passepartout?"  Phileas inquired shortly. 

"Dog?" Passepartout quavered, "what dog?"

Phileas, jaw working angrily, pointed to exhibit A, which was now standing on hind legs and whining at Jules, who had not stopped eating.

        

"Oh," said Passepartout, in a tone of discovery.  "That dog."

Phileas crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the miscreant (the human one, that is).  He raised an eyebrow interrogatively, and cleared his throat with a significant, "I'm waiting."

Passepartout tried the smile again, without noticeable effect.  "Well, Master..."

"Yes?"

"Well, you see, my sister-"

"What about your sister?" in a quiet, dangerous voice.

Rebecca had to cover her mouth.

Phileas, still speaking in an awful tone, continued.  "I'm still waiting, Passepartout."

The valet shrugged, tried the smile again, and cringed guiltily.   Avoiding his master's eye, he began fidgeting with the dishes on the table.  The dog ran merrily over and started to beg from him.  Phileas strode over and took the plates from Passepartout's hands and set them firmly on the table.  He resolutely refused to look at the dog, which was now jumping eagerly at *his* legs, asking to be picked up and fed.  Rebecca gave a little gasp, and hid her face in her napkin.  Jules sniggered, and continued to eat.

"Passepartout," Phileas paused, considering his words carefully.  "You know that I have no objection to your sister coming to see you occasionally.  In fact," he continued, still ignoring the dog, "I'm pleased that you have such a close relationship with her.  I don't even mind that she sometimes brings a few friends over to take tea with you.  Uninvited," Rebecca raised her brows at him in silent chastisement.  He avoided her eye.  "And I certainly have no objection to her coming and leaving you gifts," indicating the laden table with a wave of one elegant hand,  "which you generously share with my friends and myself."  Jules, stolidly working on his second plateful, nodded and toasted Passepartout appreciatively with his fork.  The dog continued to leap at Phileas, with soft snorts and grunts of impatience.  He somehow managed to ignore its continued assault against his person.

"You know all this," he went on, while Passepartout nodded guiltily and quivered with dread.  "And you know how fond I am of your sister.  She is a fine lady with an extremely generous nature -"

"Yes, yes, this is true," sighed Passepartout.  

Rebecca felt it time to intervene.  "Phileas, what exactly -" but before she could finish her sentence, her cousin had suddenly leaped forward and snatched something up from the floor.  The dog followed and eagerly began searching the floor for food.

"Aha!" he cried in a tone of unmistakable triumph.  He strode over to Passepartout and brandished his find in front of the valet's face.  "What's this?  What's this?"  The unfortunate Passepartout quailed and shrank back against the table.  The dog ran back to Fogg and began jumping at his legs again.

"What is it?" asked Rebecca, astonished.

Fogg turned to her, with a light of madness in his eyes.  "Dog hair!"  He cried.  He waved

his arms expansively, "dog hair - EVERYWHERE!"

"For heaven's sake, Phileas," Rebecca began, but he rounded on her.

"Oh? You think it's not so bad, do you?   How would YOU like to find THIS" shoving the fine, long white hairs in her face, "in your SOUP?!"  With a satisfied nod he finished, "with GUESTS in the house?"

Sudden understanding flooded through Rebecca.  Jules, a silent spectator, paused, looked at his food with a critical eye, shrugged, and resumed eating. 

"Oh," gasped Rebecca.  "I see."

Passepartout nodded apologetically.  "Lord and Lady Millbank." he confessed unhappily.

"Lord and Lady Millbank," she repeated, her eyes returning to Phileas's face.

"Yes.  And, most unfortunately, Lady Millbank is *allergic* to dogs," said Fogg grimly.  "And we had dog hair everywhere, didn't we, Passepartout?  On the floor, on the sofa cushions, on every chair, and even -" he paused with awful emphasis, "on my clothes."  Passepartout sniffled, and nodded guiltily.  The dog whined softly up at Phileas, who continued to ignore it.

"Oh," said Rebecca, "oh, dear." 

Fogg stood utterly still, lips working with anger, then he turned back to his unhappy valet. His eyes seemed to blaze.  "Passepartout," he murmured, "did I or did I not tell you to ask your sister NOT to bring that dog to the house again?"

Passepartout, cringing a little, nodded.  

"And did you not convey my wishes to your sister?"  

"Yes, Master."

Phileas started to speak and then hesitated, replaying question and answer in his mind. "Yes, you did tell her, or yes, you didn't tell her?"  Jules choked and started to cough.  The dog, giving up on Phileas, went over to Rebecca and began to frolic at her feet. 

"Er..."

"Well?"

"Well, you see, Master," Passepartout quailed in the face of Fogg's seething anger, "she is needing someone to look after him, while she go on an - an errand with her friends."

"What?"  Fogg's voice was almost a whisper.

"Just for a little while," Passepartout wheedled.  "He is being no trouble, look."

Unfortunately, the dog, tired of being ignored, chose that moment to snatch a chicken wing from Jules' inattentive grasp.  Jules lunged after it and missed, knocking over a basket of bread loaves onto the floor.  The dog, still carrying the chicken in its mouth, turned and tried to get some bread, too.  Before it could choke to death on its double mouthful, Rebecca managed to grab the dog, and tossed the chicken wing back to Verne.  Passepartout, happy to have something to do that would enable him to avoid his master's wrathful gaze, knelt on the floor and began picking up the small loaves of bread.  With exaggerated care he dusted off each one, and returned them to their cloth-swathed basket.  Jules looked at the soggy piece of chicken with an expression of extreme disgust, and dropped it onto the table.        

The dog, meanwhile, gave Rebecca an irritated snort, wriggled free of her grasp, and started to roll around on the carpet beside the valet, who very quietly ignored it.  Passepartout appeared to be trying to sink through the floor, away from his master's anger.

Rebecca felt it was time for her to intervene.  "Passepartout," she said carefully, not looking at her cousin, "I am afraid this dog is not a 'he'."  At the valet's blank look she continued, "It would appear to be a 'she' dog."     

"Rebecca," Phileas snapped, "the sex of the dog is not in question!"

Rebecca, brows raising at his tone, looked up, mouth open in surprise.

"Fogg!" exclaimed Jules, "What is the matter with you?  It's only a little dog!  So it leaves a little hair lying around.  Big deal.   How much trouble can a little dog be?"

Phileas glared at Verne.  "You have no idea," he growled.  "This dog -" he broke off, unable to continue.

Rebecca shook her head in disbelief.  "Honestly, Phileas, this is absurd.  You used to like dogs.  What on earth is the matter with this one?"

Phileas whirled to face her, hands on hips.  "Oh, yes!  Hunting dogs, guard dogs . . ." he waved one hand, sputtering with anger.  "USEFUL dogs.  But not THAT dog."  He pointed angrily at the animal in question, now lying on its back beside Passepartout, growling softly and asking for a tummy rub.  "That dog is a menace!"

"Really, Fogg," Verne began, but Rebecca interrupted him.

"Phileas!  I understand the dog embarrassed you - but to call it a menace!  You're behaving like an idiot!"

Passepartout gave a guilty little moan, and covered his face.  "The Duchess of Cranmoor," he sighed.  Rebecca and Jules looked at him questioningly.  "She was sooo angry.  Her poor little katty-kit.  Poor Poopsie is not knowing this katty-kit is not liking little doggies.  He is used to playing with little katties when my sister take him to visit her friends.  He is only wanting to kiss the katty's little face - he love little katty-kits."  He looked from Jules to Rebecca with a sorrowful expression.  "He think they are his friends.  But the Duchess' katty-kit not understand and make hiss at little Poopsie."   The valet gave an expressive little shrug, "So Poopsie think katty like to play the Chasing Game," Passepartout sighed, and shook his head.  "I am in the tree catching it for hours."

Jules burst out laughing.  Even Rebecca could not prevent one involuntary giggle.  She struggled to keep a straight face as she turned back to her cousin.

Fogg snapped his jaw shut in anger.   Goaded, he glared from Jules to Rebecca and back again.  "It's my house," he snarled, "and if I want to keep a dog, I will -"

"Good!" Rebecca exclaimed cheerfully, interrupting him in mid-tirade. "You see, Passepartout.  There's no problem.  Phileas will be *glad* to let your sister's dog stay here."   She stalked up to her cousin and stood nose to nose with him, daring him to contradict her. "For just as long as she needs," she finished, on a note of triumph.  Phileas' furious gaze locked with her own challenging one, his jaw clenched with fury.  After a moment, with a little sigh of defeat, he looked away.

Passepartout leapt to his feet, beaming with happiness.  "Really, Master?  Oh, thank you, Miss Rebecca," he cried.

Fogg turned, and there was a distinct sound of teeth grinding before he spoke.  "Yes, Passepartout," he murmured through frozen lips.  He cast an evil look at his cousin, whose eyes flashed in response. "The dog can stay."

Passepartout clapped his hands with joy.  "Oh, Master, thank you so much.  My sister, she will be so grateful!"

Jules broke in to ask, "So how long will you need to watch her dog, Passepartout?"

"Oh, not long," Passepartout assured him blithely.  "Only for a week."

"A WEEK!" roared his Master.  Rebecca winced.

        

Phileas seemed to swell.  He sputtered angrily for a moment, temporarily bereft of speech.  Then he found his voice once again.

"I'm going to have that - that -  fur-ball in my bed for a week?" he raged.

Jules' mouth fell open.  Rebecca gasped.  She started to speak, choked, and tried again.  "But surely the dog doesn't *sleep* with you, Phileas," she began, only to be brought up short by the look of absolute fury in his eyes.

"N-not really, Fogg," gasped Jules, his face red with laughter.

Phileas' whole face contorted with rage for a moment.  His lean body shook with suppressed emotion.  When he spoke, it was in a venomous tone that seemed to emanate from between his clenched teeth.  "Oh, yes, Rebecca," he snarled.  "The.  Dog.  Sleeps.  In.  My.  Bed."  Each word was delivered with a sharp little nod and cut off by his fury.  He glared at Jules, who was whooping with mirth.  "I would like to know," he growled dangerously, "just what it is you find so funny, Verne?"

Jules could barely speak for laughing, "Just - just the dog -" he howled with a fresh paroxysm of laughter, "in your b-b -" he broke off, unable to finish.

Rebecca regained control of her voice to ask, "Why can't the dog, er, sleep with Passepartout?  After all," in a conciliatory tone, "it is *his* sister's dog."

"Oh, no.  That won't work," her cousin answered softly, with the air of one who has already had this conversation, and wasn't happy about the result the first time.  "Passepartout says his bed isn't big enough for the creature to be comfortable."

At this, Jules collapsed onto the floor, choking with mirth.  The dog began sniffing at him eagerly, licking his hands.  He wiped tears from his eyes and patted it absently.           

"But, surely the dog could sleep somewhere else," Rebecca gasped.

Passepartout shook his head earnestly.  "Oh, no, Miss Rebecca.  If I lock him up alone, he is scratching at the door to be let out.  And if I ignore him," he continued, with a little, reproachful look at his master, "he howl, like this." He threw his head back and howled loudly.

Rebecca blinked and stared at him in dawning horror.

Phileas gave his cousin a smile that showed all of his gleaming teeth.  "You see, Rebecca?  'He howl, like this.'" He gave a hopeless gesture with one elegant hand and stood looking down at her, head tilted, brow raised, the very picture of virtuous annoyance.

"No, not - not really?"

Both master and servant nodded earnestly at her.  "Oh, yes, really."

Rebecca gave a little shake of her head in amazement.  "Oh.  Oh, dear."

Jules looked up.  "What's for dessert?" he asked.

Chapter 2 of 6:    Settling In

Later that evening, Phileas Fogg sat on the edge of his bed.  He tossed his peacock-blue brocade dressing gown across the foot of the bed, and sighed.  It had been a long day, and he was rather tired.  He had beaten Verne at cards three times and they both had celebrated the victory with a few glasses of sherry.  He yawned and stretched luxuriously.

There was a sudden scratching noise at the bottom of the closed bedroom door.  After a short pause, the scratching was repeated, along with an impatient snuffling sound.  Fogg clenched his teeth, closed his eyes and tried counting to ten.  Several times.

The scratching ceased.  He opened one eye and waited suspiciously.  After a moment, he let out his breath in a sigh of relief and allowed his tense shoulders to relax.   He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand, slowly tilting and rotating his head, helping the taut muscles in his neck to loosen.   

Suddenly, there was a thump against the lower part of the door, followed immediately by a frenzied scratching, accompanied this time with sharp whines and yips of frustration.  Phileas groaned.  In another moment, he knew, the wretched creature would begin to bark.  And after that . . . he shuddered . . . the dreadful howling would begin.  With a little sigh of defeat, he got up and opened the door.

The dog came prancing happily into the room.  He regarded it with loathing.  She sat down by his feet, and looked up at him with her tongue hanging out in a happy canine grin.  

"What do *you* want?" he muttered at it.  The dog cocked its head and whined softly, waiting politely to be invited up on the bed.  "Go away.  I said, go away," he waved his hand at it in a dismissive gesture.  The dog pricked up her ears and stood up, tail wagging slowly.

Fogg got up.  Passepartout's sister undoubtedly spoiled the dog.  Perhaps a firm hand was all the creature needed.  "Now see here," he scolded.  "I want you to get out.  Go and sleep with Passepartout."  He strode back over to the partly open door and made a sweeping gesture with his hand.  "Go on.  Go and sleep with - with your - with Passepartout."  He looked back at the dog.  She jumped up onto the bed, and carefully settled herself - in the exact center of his pillow.  

Fogg leapt toward the bed, furious.  "Get off," he commanded, "get -" the dog scampered away towards the foot of the bed.  He tried to grab her but she jumped off onto the floor and began jumping up and down, panting with excitement.  "Good dog," he told her, "you just stay -" she jumped onto the bed again.  "Down," he commanded sharply, "down!  On the floor with you."

The dog escaped his reach, and once more jumped to the floor.  She gave a sharp 'yip' of enjoyment and grabbed one of Phileas' slippers in her mouth.  "Here!"  He exclaimed, "let go!"  The dog growled playfully, and yanked the slipper from his foot.   "Drop that!"  He yelled.  "Mine!  That's mine!  Give it back -"

With an inarticulate cry of rage, he lunged at the dog, slipped, and wound up face-down on the floor.  The dog, highly gratified by this wonderful mode of play, dropped the slipper,

barked once, then snatched the slipper up again and ran out of the room, glancing behind to see if he would follow.

Phileas leapt to his feet with a curse and flew through the door.  He nearly ran straight into Jules, who was carrying a small plate of sandwiches and a glass of water to the guest room.  

Jules stared in astonishment at the usually immaculate Fogg, standing breathless in a rather short nightshirt and one slipper, with his hair standing on end.  He looked down, up, then down again.  'Er, Fogg," he began inanely, "you - your knees are showing . . . "    

Fogg, arrested in mid step, straightened his shoulders and tugged ineffectually at the bottom of his nightshirt.  "Yes," he said with a show of poise, "yes, well -"

Jules was still staring at his bare legs and one slipper with evident fascination.  

"What - What are you doing?" he asked.   

Fogg hesitated, and glared at Verne.  It did him no good at all to see that the writer was fully clad, and wearing his own second-best dressing gown of scarlet silk, and spare pair of slippers.  "What are YOU doing, Verne?" he countered crossly.

"I was - I was just getting something to eat," Jules replied, waving the plate of sandwiches in explanation.

"I should have thought you'd had enough to eat already," Phileas said tartly.

Jules blinked at him in surprise.  "Well, I - I -" he broke off, and his amazed and wondering gaze dropped once more to Phileas' legs.  He gave a little shake of his head to clear it.  "What, er, what happened to your other shoe, Fogg?"

Fogg's lips compressed in irritation,  "That mangy cur stole it," he snapped.  "Did you see which way it went?"  

Speechless, Verne gestured down the hallway with the plate.     

Fogg, with a nod of thanks, started down the hall, turned swiftly back and held a warning finger in his guest's face.  "Not one word," he stated grimly.  "Not one, Verne, do you hear? You never saw this.  It NEVER happened."

Wide-eyed, Verne nodded earnestly.  Phileas cast him one last, baleful look, and snatched one of the sandwiches from the plate.  "Bait," he called over his shoulder and started off in pursuit of his furry tormenter.

Jules went quietly into his room and closed the door.  For quite a while he could hear Phileas' footsteps, the sound of scampering paws, and an occasional "Come here, you brute! Come here I say!"  He got into bed and buried his head under his pillow so Phileas would not hear his hysterical laughter.

                *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

The next day dawned bright and sunny.  Verne, still in his borrowed dressing gown, walked into the dining room, yawning and scratching his head.  Phileas, fully clad, sat stiffly at the head of the table, drinking a cup of tea and reading the newspaper.  He looked uncompromisingly unfriendly.  The remains of his breakfast stood on the table before him.  

Jules went over to the sideboard and helped himself.  He sat down quietly and began to eat.  After his first, swift glance, he had not looked at Phileas, and instead concentrated on his breakfast, trying without success to forget the late-night spectacle he had witnessed.

Fogg gave him one or two suspicious looks over his paper, and did not speak.

Then Passepartout came in, and greeted Verne.  He carefully did not look at his master, and his usual cheerful manner seemed a little restrained.

"Good morning, Master Jules," he said quietly.

Jules smiled and returned the greeting.  Passepartout cast one nervous, guilty look over his shoulder at Fogg, still hidden behind the newspaper, then leaned toward Jules.  "How - how did you sleep, Master Jules?"  He asked anxiously.  "I - I hope -" with another glance at his master, "I hope you were not disturbed by anything.  In - in the night."

Fogg rattled his paper, cleared his throat, and refused to surface.

Jules resolutely cast the vision of Fogg's bare legs and lost shoe from his mind.  He managed to answer Passepartout calmly.  "No.  No, I slept very well," he began, and broke off at sight of the dog, trotting happily into the room.  His eyes widened.  The dog, by accident or design, made straight for Phileas, and jumped into his lap, thereby shredding the newspaper.  Phileas looked down at the dog with absolutely no expression on his handsome face.  The torn halves of the shredded newspaper dangled from both hands.   Passepartout gave a little gasp of horror, and hurried over to pick up the dog, who was happily engaged in cleaning Fogg's plate.  

"Thank you, Passepartout," he said, with icy calm.

Passepartout bobbed up and down anxiously.  The dog began trying to lick his chin.  "I'm so sorry, Master," he began in evident distress.  "I will go out at once and get a fresh newspaper." 

Fogg carefully folded the remains of his paper and tossed it onto the table.  "Good," he said coldly.  "While you are out, you can get me another pair of slippers." In a venomous tone he added, "Something seems to have happened to mine during the night."

Passepartout winced.  Jules felt a rush of sympathy for the valet.  "I'll go and get you a paper, Fogg," he said quickly.  "I need to stretch my - my legs."  Wincing inwardly at this slip, he looked from Fogg's frozen face to Passepartout's guilty one.  "I'll take the dog with me," he offered, desperately.  Fogg's face clouded briefly, then he nodded.

"I'm sure Passepartout will be grateful for your help, Verne."  He got up and stalked out of the room, into the library.  The door shut behind him with a little 'snap'.

                *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       

Rebecca came by later in the day, ostensibly for luncheon, but mainly because she was feeling extremely curious about the dog's visit.  She was slightly disappointed when it failed to appear during the meal, and rather fancied she could hear some frenzied scratching sounds emanating from the kitchen.  Shortly afterward, the little dog came prancing in, looking somewhat disgruntled.   It ran over to Fogg, and frisked around his feet, looking amazingly cute and fluffy.  Fogg refused to look down.  Jules, seated on the other side of the room, quietly snapped his fingers at the dog, who ran swiftly over, and jumped happily into his lap.  She continued, however, to look at Phileas while Jules stroked her long, soft hair.  

Rebecca had noticed Fogg treating Verne with a slight coolness during lunch.  Jules, for his part, seemed unable to meet Phileas's eye.  Whenever he had inadvertently met her cousin's gaze, he seemed to suffer from a very sudden fit of coughing.  However, both men had responded to her conversation with their customary friendliness and politeness.

Passepartout sidled guiltily into the room.  Rebecca felt extremely sorry for him.  An unhappy Passepartout was something she was not accustomed to seeing, and she didn't like it at all.  She compressed her lips in annoyance.   *Really,* she thought, *Phileas is being extremely ridiculous.   I shall have to speak to him, directly.*    She cleared her throat and smiled at the valet.

"Oh, Passepartout.  I did not think to ask you yesterday.  What is the dog's name?" Rebecca inquired.

"Cleopawtra."

She frowned slightly.  "You mean Cleopatra," she corrected.

"Oh, no, Miss," Passepartout replied earnestly.  "Cle-o-PAW-tra.  My sister," with a deprecating little laugh, "she like a little joke."

"Ah."  

"But I just call him Poopsie," Passepartout finished calmly.

Rebecca's eyes flew to her cousin's face.  Phileas looked up at her coolly.  His measured gaze did not waver.  He nodded, and Rebecca had to turn away, stifling her laughter.  Jules sniggered into the dog's fur.

"What kind of a dog is she, Passepartout?"  She asked, recovering.

"He is being a - a Maltese dog, Miss Rebecca."

"Well, she certainly is very pretty.  I am sure your sister takes very good care of her," she said, smiling.                    

Passepartout beamed proudly.  "Oh, yes.  Every night my sister give to Poopsie the brushing.  And she is always wiping the feet after the rain."

Rebecca's lips twitched.  Jules glanced at the clock and stirred in his chair.

"Would you like me to take Poop - er, Cleo for a walk, Passepartout?"  he asked.

Passepartout looked up at him in surprise.  "Why, yes, Master Jules.  How good it is for you to take such trouble from me."  Fogg snorted quietly.

"Quite," he muttered.

Passepartout cast his master a nervous look and turned back to Verne, "Are you sure, Master Jules?  It is my sister's dog and I -" but Verne interrupted him.

"No trouble at all, Passepartout.  I *like* your sister's dog," this last was flung as a challenge to Fogg, who merely regarded Verne with a raised brow and a sardonic expression.

"Have fun," he called mockingly as Jules walked out with the little dog in his arms.

"Phileas!" Rebecca exclaimed, as the door closed behind the young writer.  "Phileas,

really, I think -" but her cousin interrupted her, his eyes flashing dangerously.

"Not now, Rebecca," he said coldly, getting up.  "I don't want to hear it."

Rebecca stared at him with her mouth open.  He paused at the door and looked back at her.  "I am going out," he stated baldly.  "You may stay if you choose."

Passepartout smiled weakly at Rebecca as his master left the room.  "Would you be liking more tea, Miss Rebecca?" he asked.

Rebecca sat there stunned for a moment.  Then she gave herself a little shake.  "Yes, Passepartout, I would.  Will you join me, please?"   She smiled up into his surprised and somewhat anxious face.  "Perhaps you could explain what just happened."

Passepartout, with a wan little smile, sat down beside her.  His large eyes held a faintly pleading expression, and his shoulders remained a little hunched.  He looked as though all the faults and guilt of the world were resting on his mind and conscience.

"Good!" Rebecca exclaimed.  "Now, shall I be 'Mother'?"

At his weak nod, she picked up the teapot and began to pour.  "Now, Passepartout, you must tell me just what happened last night after I left."  Her eyes were dancing with mischief.

Passepartout gave a nervous little titter, and began to tell all . . . .

Chapter 3 of 6:    The Interrupted Walk

Jules walked toward the park, the little dog prancing happily at his side.  It was a lovely day, warm and unusually sunny.  Just the day, he thought, for everyone to be spending the afternoon outside.  In the park.  He hastened his steps.

As he had hoped, the park was more crowded than usual.  *Phileas is a fool,* he thought, *this dog is a marvel.*  They walked into the park.  It was like magic.  Every eye was instantly drawn to the adorable little dog.  Children came running up to pet her, with their very attractive nannies and governesses in tow.  Pretty ladies came over, exclaiming over the dog, and giving Jules admiring glances and smiles.  One or two older ladies also paused, casting kindly eyes over the young writer.  "Such a nice-looking boy," he heard one say.

He had inadvertently discovered the dog's amazing magnetic quality only that morning, while picking up a fresh newspaper for Fogg.  He had been astounded to find himself the center of so much female attention.  So much approval had been a heady sensation.  Indeed, he had had some difficulty in tearing himself away.

Now, once again surrounded by a mass of admiring femininity, he had to fight the urge to laugh aloud.  *Amazing,* he thought, and smiled happily.  *What a wonderful dog.*      

                *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       

Fogg, walking slowly in an effort to calm his nerves, soon saw Verne standing on the sidewalk at the edge of the park.  The young writer was standing in front of a row of shops talking to an extremely pretty young woman.  He appeared to be complementing the young lady, who giggled in a most becoming fashion.

Suddenly, an older woman exited one of the shops.  She glanced around and frowned when she saw the girl talking to Jules.  

"Arabella," she called sharply.  "I am ready to go."  With great dignity, she walked over to a handsome carriage standing in the street in front of the little shop.  

The girl bade Verne a hasty goodbye and hurried over to her mistress.  The dowager looked frowningly at Verne, who bowed politely to her.  The hard eyes softened a little at sight of the little dog, capering happily at Verne's feet.  With a slight smile, the lady swept past Jules and entered the carriage.  Arabella scurried after her, casting Jules one last smile as the carriage pulled away.

Fogg strolled up, having ample time to observe Jules' expression.   The young writer sighed, and looked out at the world with a smile of complete infatuation.  

"A new acquaintance?" Fogg asked.

Jules turned to him in surprise.  "Yes, Fogg," he looked after the carriage again with another sigh.  "At least I hope so."

"A very attractive young lady," Phileas observed with a slight smile.  The dog jumped at him in greeting, but, as usual, he ignored it.

Verne turned shining eyes toward his friend.  "Isn't she lovely?"

Fogg's smile deepened.  "Very.  May I know her name?"

"Arabella," Jules sighed in ecstasy, "Arabella Lawrence.  Personal Companion to Lady Wentworth."

Fogg nodded approvingly.  "Have you known her very long?" he asked.

"No," Jules answered.  "We met only this morning.  While I was getting your newspaper."

"Indeed?"

"Yes," Verne cast Phileas a quick look.  "In fact," he added casually, "we met because of the dog."

Fogg gave an exclamation of impatience.  "Not that wretched beast again!"   He gave an exasperated sigh.  "All right, tell me the worst.  What's it done now?  It hasn't bitten anyone, has it?"

Jules laughed.  "No, Phileas.  The dog did nothing at all.  Arabella - Miss Lawrence saw Cleo and came over to pet her.  Everyone," waving a hand expansively, "came over to pet her.  This is a very nice dog, Phileas."  Cleo, tiring of Phileas' indifference, sat down by Jules' feet.  She yawned, and looked around with a happy expression.

"Hmph."

"Really," Jules insisted.  "Just you take her out next time.  I guarantee, in five minutes you won't be able to move.  You'll be surrounded by beautiful ladies."

"Because of the dog," Fogg returned skeptically.

"Because of the dog," Jules assured him earnestly.  "Really, Fogg.  Children and ladies gather round Cleo like - like bees to honey.  It's a kind of magic."    

"Magic for a man of science?"   Fogg laughed.  He glanced at his reflection in a nearby window and smiled with evident satisfaction.   "I certainly don't need a dog's help to meet pretty ladies, Verne," he added rather smugly.

Verne laughed at his friend's preening.  "Perhaps not.  But a penniless writer takes all the favors fate cares to cast his way."

Phileas gave a bark of laughter.  "Very well.  However, you'll never convince me the creature is anything other than a nuisance.   Still, there does seem to be magic involved, for I see *you* have fallen completely under its furry spell.  Perhaps the wretched beast will sleep with you tonight."  His face tightened abruptly, as he suddenly recalled the annoyances of the previous evening.  Verne quickly changed the subject.

"Will you accompany me, Phileas?"  He asked.

"Certainly not," Phileas replied shortly.  "I have an appointment with my tailor.  I cannot be late.  I will see you later, Verne."

Jules smiled at his friend.  "All right," he said, "Goodbye."  He started off down the street with the little dog at his side.  Fogg, a muscle in his jaw twitching, watched him go, then turned and started off in the opposite direction.

Jules, humming to himself, continued down the street and turned round the corner.  He was enjoying himself, just walking along with this adorable dog.  His head was filled with thoughts of the lovely Arabella.  He sighed.  *Arabella!*  She was as lovely as her name.  Apart from the obvious perfections of her nut-brown curls and wide dark eyes, she possessed a quickness of wit that was a source of ready laughter.  He observed a little tea shop only a few doors down the street.  Perhaps tomorrow, he could convince her to go there with him for a cup of tea and a plate of sweet biscuits.

As he continued on, he was startled out of his dreaming by an odd noise coming from the alley at his left.  He stopped and peered into the dimness.  He thought he could just see someone stirring on the ground inside the alley.  Was someone hurt?   Cleo gave a little growl, and pulled in the opposite direction.  He pulled her toward the alley, but she dug her feet into the ground and refused to move.  Her strength was surprising.  He called her, but she still would not budge.   He picked her up, and turned back toward the alley.   "Hello?" he called.  The figure stirred with another moan.  

He stepped into the alley and was instantly seized from behind, a rough blanket thrown over his head.   He heard Cleo give one frightened bark as someone gave him an almighty whack on the head.  He reeled, and felt a rope twisted around the blanket, pinning his arms, still holding the dog, inside its musty folds.  He tried to yell, but the heavy fabric muffled all sounds, and he felt himself picked up and thrown roughly into some type of vehicle.   The dog barked and howled madly, scratching his arms and chest as she fought to escape the blanket.  He could just hear someone yell, "Got him!  Let's go!"  Jules was shoved onto the floor as the vehicle started swiftly forward.  He tried once more to yell for help, and one of his captors hit him again.  This time, he lost consciousness.

Fogg, only a little way down the street, heard the dog's first frantic bark.  He recognized the voice of Cleo, and swore softly to himself.  *Wretched dog,* he thought.  *Now what?*  The barking began again, and he suddenly became aware of the shrill note of hysteria in the dog's voice.  He had never heard that kind of screaming bark before, and turned immediately, moving swiftly toward the corner where he had last seen Verne.

Phileas had just turned the corner, when a delivery coach came flying past, the horses going at full tilt.  He had time for only the briefest glance at the driver, who wore a scarf around his neck with his face well tucked down and hidden by a drooping hat.  He could hear Cleo's mad barking from the interior of the coach and ran after it as fast as he could.  He managed to grab onto the side door and had one brief glimpse of Verne, wrapped in a blanket on the floor, when one of the men inside began hitting at his hands with a heavy cudgel.  Phileas grabbed at the cudgel with one hand and was struck in the face by another man.  He lost his balance and fell from the coach into the street.  He rolled quickly to one side, away from an oncoming carriage, which was heading in the opposite direction.  He leapt to his feet and raced down the street, but the coach had already turned a corner and vanished.  Jules was gone.

At last he stopped, panting with exertion.  His trousers were torn and bloody, his face bleeding where the ruffian had struck him.  "Oh, no," Phileas whispered.  "Rebecca and Passepartout are going to kill me."

Chapter 4 of 6:    Terrible News

A weary and disheveled Phileas returned to his home.  As expected, Rebecca and Passepartout were horrified and outraged by the abduction of Verne and the dog.

"Did you see anyone you recognized in the coach?"  Rebecca asked, dabbing at Phileas' cut face with a handkerchief.

"No - ouch!  Leave that alone -" he tried to wave her away, but she insisted.

"The last thing you need is an infection," she said tartly.  "Now, hold still, this won't hurt..."  As she pressed the brandy-soaked cloth to his cheek he gave a roar of pain and leapt to his feet.

"That's enough!" he shouted.  He stepped quickly away from her, limping on his injured leg.  He moved stiffly behind a chair as she darted toward him again.  Passepartout, his face taut with anxiety, came into the room carrying a tray of bandages and medicines.  

Rebecca threw down the cloth she was holding and began rummaging among the bottles on the tray.  "Here," she said sharply.  "Don't be such a baby.  Sit down and be still.  Can't have the beauty ruined, now can we?"  She gave him a mocking look.  "Think of the broken hearts if that should leave a scar.  Come on, sit down."  She turned to the valet.  "Passepartout, bring those bandages over here."

"I'm all right," Fogg protested.  

Rebecca ignored him.  "Sit down.  You're no good to Jules if you're bleeding everywhere."  Her eyes flashed with annoyance, and she reached out and shoved him down into a chair.  "Be still!"  She commanded sharply.  She poured out some medicine on a clean cloth.  "Now, press this against that cut on your cheek.  It should stop the bleeding."  She glanced over her shoulder.  "Passepartout, come and have a look at this leg."

"It's nothing -"

"It's not nothing if I say it isn't," she snapped.  "I saw you limping as you came in."

With an exasperated sigh, he acquiesced, pressing the cloth to his cheek and hissing at the pain of the medicine on his cut face.  In point of fact, the leg did ache abominably.  He had not realized it until his cousin had forced him to sit still.  

Rebecca sat down on a footstool and ruthlessly tore open the already damaged knee of his trousers.  Passepartout came up beside her, holding the medicine and bandages.

Phileas tried to jump up.  "Rebecca!"  He exclaimed protestingly, but she just gave him a dire look.  Flushing a little, he subsided in the chair as both cousin and valet examined the nasty cuts and scrapes on his knee and lower leg.  

"Not too bad.  There'll be a lot of bruising," Rebecca observed.  She cast him a look as she began to clean the wounds.  "I *have* seen worse."

"Yes," Passepartout said with a slight smile, "Yes, indeed, Master.  You will be good as old in nobody's time."  Then his face twisted with distress.  "Oh, poor Master Jules!   Who would do such a thing?"

Rebecca pressed a dressing against some of the nastier cuts on Phileas' leg and began wrapping it with a bandage.   After a moment she looked up at her cousin.  "Well, Phileas, about this abduction.  Did you see any of their faces?"

He shook his head regretfully.  "No.  Not clearly enough to identify.  And the coach was just like every other vehicle used for deliveries around town."  He winced as Rebecca tied the bandage tightly, and then she stood up, looking at the cut on his face again.

"We'll leave this one alone," she murmured, "I think it will heal with no problem.  What do you think Passepartout?"  The valet carefully examined his master's visage.  

"Okey-dokey-fine," he agreed.

Rebecca stood back frowning. "Well, Phileas?  The League of Darkness, do you think?"

Phileas shook his head angrily and started to pace.  Rebecca opened her mouth to order him to sit down again, and rest the injured leg.  The sight of his intense expression caused her to remain silent.  Phileas' anger and frustration needed an outlet.  Forced immobility was intolerable to his passionate and impulsive nature.  He paused briefly in his restless movements, resting his hands against the high, carved back of a chair.  His eyes blazed.  His face - his entire body radiated tension and suppressed fury.   "I suppose it must be.  Who else would want to abduct Verne?"

"I can't believe it.  It makes no sense.  Don't they know by now he will never help them?"  Rebecca demanded.

Phileas looked at her.  "Never willingly help them," he said slowly.  "But, there are ways of forcing cooperation..." his voice trailed off.  Rebecca stared at him in shocked dismay.

"Oh, poor Master Jules!"  Passepartout gasped, his eyes wide with horror.  "Oh, no!"  He clapped his hands to his cheeks at a sudden thought.  "Poor Poopsie!  What will they do to him?"

"I'm sure the dog will be all right, Passepartout," Fogg answered irritably.  "It's Verne we need to worry about.

Passepartout stared at his master.  "But, Master, the League of Darkness, they are very evil peoples.  Passepartout is sure very evil peoples are not liking little doggies.  Oh, my poor sister!" he moaned, "Poopsie is like a baby to her!  And she leave him for me to be watching!  She is thinking here he is safe with her brother, Passepartout!"  He struck his forehead with the flat of his hand.  "Oh, is all my fault for letting Master Jules take little Poopsie out for walkies - oh, what to do?"  He clutched at Phileas' coat by the lapels and stared earnestly into his master's startled face.  "Master, we must find little Poopsie - and Master Jules, too!"

"I intend to do that Passepartout," Fogg replied, gently prying the hysterical valet's hands from his coat.  

"Yes, don't worry, Passepartout, " said Rebecca, coming forward and laying a comforting hand on the valet's arm.  "Jules will protect Poop- your sister's dog, I am sure."

Passepartout gave her a pitiful look.  "But if the Master is right and Master Jules was knocked asleep - who is guarding little Poopsie?"

Fogg made an impatient gesture.  "I'm sure the dog will be safe, Passepartout."  As the valet raised anxious eyes to his face he was seized with an inspiration.  "Didn't you say the dog was valuable?  They're sure to realize that.  They wouldn't harm a valuable animal."  He shrugged helplessly over Passepartout's shoulder at Rebecca's skeptical look, but his feeble comforting seemed to help.

Passepartout straightened, his eyes brightening a little.  "Yes, Master," he replied eagerly, "Poopsie is very valuable, I remember my sister always saying he is without a price."

Fogg coughed.  "Yes, yes, I am sure she is."

Rebecca nodded.  "Well, I am going to the office to see if Chatsworth has any information on the League's most recent movements."

"Good.  I'll change and go back to the place where they picked up Verne.  There are a lot of small shops around there.  Perhaps someone saw something useful."  Phileas said.

Rebecca hesitated.  "Are you sure, Phileas?  You really should be resting.  That leg -"

Fogg interrupted her.  "It's only a trifle.  I must find Verne."  He looked over at Passepartout, "and the dog as well."  He limped over and placed his hands on his valet's shoulders.  "Now, now, Passepartout.  I will find your sister's dog."  Passepartout smiled a little and nodded.  His confidence in Fogg was unshakable.  "*I* am also responsible for her.  She was left in your charge, but this is *my* house."  He gave Passepartout's shoulders a little squeeze and stepped back, looking at both of them.  "I am responsible for the safety of all my guests."  Rebecca, smiling slightly, caught his eye.  He straightened and added, "Even if that guest is a dog."

"Master, I am coming with you," Passepartout offered eagerly.  When Fogg hesitated, he added, "With two if us we can be looking double as hard."

"All right, Passepartout," Phileas replied, recognizing his friend's need for action, much as Rebecca had seen the same need in him.  He turned to his cousin.  "Shall we meet back here with any news in, say, two hours?"

Rebecca agreed, and the three went out in search of Jules Verne - and Poopsie.

                *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Jules' head was pounding.  He seemed to be having difficulty breathing.  There was a weight on his chest and someone was washing his face with a warm rough cloth.  He stirred and tried to turn his head to avoid the moist cloth.  The weight on his chest shifted, and the washing continued, more rapidly.  He became aware of a smell.  Warm, wet, and - he opened his eyes - very doggie.  *Ugh,* he thought.  *Dog breath.*

The dog lay on his chest, licking his face with her rough tongue.  He groaned, and struggled to sit up.  The dog leapt off his chest and began jumping up and down excitedly.

Jules looked blearily around a dark, dank little cellar room.  The floor and walls were of rough stone, stained with damp.  A simple wooden stair led up to a very solid-looking door.  The contents of the room were equally uninspiring.  A dilapidated table stood in one corner.  There were several largish wooden crates, a couple of beer casks, and a pile of what looked like empty burlap sacks in one corner, next to the stair.  

Jules looked down at himself.  His hands were tied in front of him.  His coat had been removed, and his trouser pockets emptied.  He seemed to be sitting on the very blanket they had used for his abduction.  He rubbed his aching head and groaned.

 He looked at the door again.  He could hear faint voices in the room upstairs, so there seemed no point in trying the door.  Even if it were unlocked, which was very unlikely, he would immediately be seen and recaptured.

Cleo gave an excited yip and dashed across the room.  She jumped onto one of the crates and leapt up and down.  Jules stared blankly at the dog.  She stared at him for one frustrated moment, then gave a little snort and ran back over to him.

She growled impatiently and ran back over to the crate, looking around to see that he was still watching, and jumped onto it again.  She looked at him intently, growled, and turned towards the wall, front paws raised to scrabble at the rough stone, her gaze directed firmly upwards.

Jules followed the direction of her gaze and gave a sudden start.  High up in the wall was a tiny window, little more than a barred grill, used more for ventilation than for light.  He struggled to his feet, still a little dizzy from the blows to his head, and tried to reach the window.

He wasn't tall enough.  Casting his eye about the room, Jules staggered over and dragged another crate over beside the first.  He had some trouble lifting the third crate on top of the others, due to his tied hands, but finally managed it.  The whole time, Cleo scampered happily around his feet.

Finally he climbed his makeshift stair and discovered he could just reach the grill.  It was very rusty, and he pushed and pulled at the lever.  Suddenly, with a grating noise, the grill shifted, and opened out.

He put his hands on the sill and chinned himself up.  All he could see was a small section of a narrow, filthy alley, piled with debris.  From the look of things, it did not seem likely that anyone would come down this alley and hear his calls for help.  Nor did he think his captors would be foolish enough to leave him in a place where his voice could be heard.  With a little groan he dropped down onto the crate again.  Open or not, there was no possible way he could squeeze through the tiny aperture.  He rubbed at his aching head and tried to think.

He heard a tiny sound at his feet and looked down.  Cleo stood on her hind legs on the crate by his feet.  Her front paws rested against the wall.  She looked up at him and whined eagerly.

Jules stared at the dog and glanced quickly up at the window.  It was a very little window, but then, Cleo *was* a very little dog.  He couldn't escape, but maybe she could.  He bent down and picked her up.  She was wriggling excitedly.  "Now, now," he whispered, "be still."

Carefully he lifted the dog up to the narrow opening.  He got the front part of her through, and then she seemed stuck.  He hesitated, fearful of injuring her.

Cleo stuck her head and front paws out the window and looked around.  Jules pushed her farther through the opening.  She tried to move, but got stuck.  With a little whine, and a sudden determined scrabbling of paws, she forced her way out, and stood in the alley, panting triumphantly.  She turned and looked through the window down at Jules, whining softly.

"Good dog," Jules exclaimed.  "Now, go home and get help."  He was suddenly aware of voices approaching outside the door.  "Hurry, Cleo, go home.  Get Fogg."  

With a little yip of excitement, Cleo bounded away.  

He had no time to worry about a small dog running loose in the city, for the door opened at that moment.  Several men, all with scarves across the lower part of their faces, came into the room.

"Hey, you," one yelled, dashing down the stairs, hands reaching for the young writer.  Jules kicked at him, and managed to knock him down.

"Help, help!"  He yelled.  He struck out at the next man, but the others rushed forward and overpowered him.  He hit his head on the side of a crate and lost consciousness.

Chapter 5 of 6:    A Desperate Search

Fogg and Passepartout's search was fruitless.  No one had seen or heard anything unusual.  Even Fogg's mad dash after the coach appeared to have escaped notice.  They investigated the alley, and found nothing useful.  With each negative inquiry, Fogg could see Passepartout's hopes dropping.  Although he said nothing, Phileas knew the valet was feeling terrible about the abduction of Verne, and the loss of his beloved sister's dog.

At last the time came for them to return home.  

"Buck up, Passepartout," Fogg adjured him.  "I feel sure Rebecca will have discovered something."

Passepartout nodded and gave his master a brave smile.  "Yes, maybe she is already finding Master Jules." His face twisted with anxiety,  "And little Poopsie."

Fogg sighed.  *If only I had accompanied Verne,* he thought.  *I could have prevented this.  But no, I had to be a slave to my temper.  Damn my abominable pride!*  He bit his lip, worrying over the fate of Jules Verne.  He could hear his own words, "there are ways of forcing cooperation" repeated again and again in his mind in a terrible litany.  It was too horrible to contemplate, the fate of his young friend Jules, with his brilliant mind broken by drugs or torture.  *I'll kill whoever did this,* he promised himself.  

His thoughts turned to Passepartout's sister, Elise.  A tall, slim girl, with dark curls and her brother's eyes and smile.  She adored that dog, he knew.  He pictured the expression on her face when he broke the news of the terrible loss to her.  He shuddered as he imagined those brilliant eyes filling with tears.  He knew how it would be.  She would not blame him.  She would not blame Passepartout.  She would blame only herself.  She would try to console *them* for the loss of their friend, while grieving silently over the fate of her poor little dog.          

But the sweet, unthinking trust she had in her brother would be gone.  Destroyed utterly by the loss of the beloved pet she had entrusted to his care.  The same faith Passepartout had in Fogg, Elise had for her brother.  The thought that his own actions might destroy that faith was sickening to Phileas.

Passepartout glanced sidelong at his master.  Fogg was limping badly.  His face was drawn and pale, and he looked tired.  There was a grimness in the set of his mouth that boded ill for the kidnappers.  Passepartout felt terrible a rush of guilt.

"I am sorry, Master," he said quietly.

Fogg gave him a surprised look.  "Sorry for what, Passepartout?"

"Because I am knowing you did not want the dog in the house," Passepartout answered in a rush.  "But I let my sister leave Poopsie with me anyways.  Everything is Passepartout's fault."

Fogg stared at him.  "Passepartout, this is not -"

But the valet, intent upon a full confession, interrupted him, "I am knowing Poopsie will bother you, Master, and still I am letting him stay.  Passepartout is very sorry about the slippers.  I am wanting to tell you, I pay for them from my own trousers."

Phileas stopped, and put his hand on Passepartout's arm.

"Passepartout," he said gently.  Passepartout raised his flinching gaze to his master's face.  Fogg gave the valet's arm a comforting pat.  "Passepartout, this is not your fault.  The  dog- " Passepartout tried to speak but Phileas held up one hand to quiet him. "The dog's annoying me is my own problem.  The slippers are not important, and you are not to pay for them."  He shook his head, and started off down the street again, Passepartout at his side.

"Really, the fault is mine, for not making allowances.  She's a dog.  She is going to do 'dog things.'  It isn't right for me to expect her to just sit still and do nothing."  He smiled ruefully.  "Jules was right.  The hair, chasing that wretched cat, none of that matters." Phileas straightened unconsciously, and caught his valet's eye.  "Passepartout, I am sorry I made such an absurd fuss about the dog."  *There,* he thought.  *I have said it.  For all the good it does now, I have apologized to Passepartout for being such a selfish beast.*

Passepartout stared at him.  "But Poopsie is bothering you at night," the valet began, but Fogg shook his head.

"Cleo is used to, well, sharing a bed with your sister at night." He laughed suddenly.  "I should be flattered that she finds me a reasonable substitute.  No, Passepartout, this is not your fault.  You cannot think Verne was kidnapped because of a dog!"  He laughed at the thought, and, after a moment, Passepartout joined in.

Finally they arrived back at Fogg's home.  Rebecca hurried in bare moments after them.  She dashed into the sitting room, looking about eagerly.

"Any luck?"  All three asked in one breath, and identical expressions of disappointment spread over each of their faces.

Fogg sat, his aching leg stretched out before him.  He accepted the glass of brandy Passepartout offered him with a sigh.  The valet offered a glass to Rebecca, but she absently refused.  He looked down at it, shrugged, and drank it himself.

"Sit down, Passepartout," Phileas murmured.  The valet obeyed him with a tired sigh.

"No use," Phileas told Rebecca.  "No one saw anything."  He looked inquiringly at her.  

"What about you?"

Rebecca sat down rather suddenly.  She felt sick.  She had hurried back to Phileas praying that his search had been more productive than her own.  "Nothing.  Oh, there are a few reports of the League acting up, but there is nothing going on in or around London.  I discovered nothing that could help us."  Her shoulders slumped a little. She sat looking down at her strong, capable hands, clasped tightly in her lap.  She was not used to failure.  The horror of Jules's predicament filled her with a nameless dread.

"No rumors, nothing?" asked Fogg in surprise.

She raised her gaze to his face.  "No.  The Intelligence net is very quiet.  If you hadn't seen him abducted with your own eyes, I'd say there had been a mistake."

Phileas, his lips compressed tightly, began to shake his head.  Suddenly he sat up, listening intently.  "Listen!" he exclaimed.  "Can you hear something?"     

Rebecca blinked at him in surprise, but Passepartout suddenly leapt up from his chair.  "I am hearing something too, Master," he cried excitedly.  "It sounds like - like Poopsie!"

Fogg jumped up and started out the door but Passepartout skipped nimbly ahead of him and dashed down the hall.  The two cousins followed.

Now Rebecca could hear it too, a wild scratching and whining sound at the front door.

Passepartout reached the door and flung it wide.  "Poopsie!" he shrieked ecstatically, stooping to catch the little dog up in his arms.  He turned to face the others, a broad, beaming smile upon his face.  "Look Master!  Miss Rebecca!  Poopsie is come home!"

"It - it's a miracle," Rebecca heard herself say.

She and Phileas stared in amazement at the little dog.  An exhausted Cleo lay in Passepartout's arms, panting very hard.  Her long white coat was dirty and tangled.  There were even small leaves caught up in her fur.  She looked up at the three humans and whined anxiously.

"How in the world -" Rebecca began, but Fogg cut her off.

"Give her to me, Passepartout," Phileas said quietly.  "Fetch some water.  She's bound to be thirsty."

Rebecca watched in bemusement as her cousin took the dog from Passepartout's arms.  Phileas held her as carefully as any baby, and the little dog gave a big sigh, and nestled her head against his shoulder.

He carried her into the sitting room, and put her gently on the floor in front of the bowl of water Passepartout had just put down.   He sat down, and rubbed absentmindedly at his sore knee.                                                  

Cleo drank gratefully.

"Careful, Passepartout," Rebecca warned.  "Not too much or she may get sick."

Passepartout nodded, and picked up the bowl again.  He stroked the little dog gently, an expression of intense relief on his face.  The dog, muzzle dripping, watched the bowl's removal with obvious disappointment.

Phileas picked her up and set her in his lap.  Immediately the little dog snuggled up against him.  He didn't seem to notice the water dripping from her muzzle onto his clothes.

"Good dog," he praised softly.  Then he lifted Cleo and looked directly into her soft brown eyes.

"Now, then, Cleo," he began in a firm voice.  The dog's ears pricked at the sound of her name.  "Where is Verne?"  The dog looked at him, uncomprehending interest in her little face.

"Yes," exclaimed Rebecca, running around behind Phileas' chair and leaning over his shoulder, gazing intently at the dog.  "Verne, find Verne," she urged.

Passepartout crowded in on the other side.  The dog looked up at the three faces above her and panted slightly.

"Poopsie, find Master Jules," the valet begged.  Cleo gave an excited little gasp and began wagging her tail hesitantly.

The three humans exchanged glances.  "Find Master Jules, Poopsie," they all exclaimed together, and the dog began barking and wriggling with excitement.

"I think we have our clue," whispered Rebecca.  Passepartout jumped up and down with glee, clapping his hands.

Fogg nodded slowly, "Yes, I think we do," he murmured.  He looked up at his cousin.  "We'd best start right away," he said, and she smiled in agreement.

They paused just long enough for the dog to have another drink and for Passepartout to gather the weapons and supplies they might need.

"I'll go with the dog -" Fogg began, but Rebecca interrupted him.

"No, Phileas," she said firmly.  "You need to rest that leg.  I'll go on foot with Cleo.  The

two of you can follow in the *Aurora.*  There's no telling where we'll end up."

Fogg knew better than to argue when Rebecca had that steely look in her eye.  He had to admit his leg was paining him greatly, and she would be better able to keep up with the dog.

A very short while later, Fogg and Passepartout were flying in the streets above London, following Rebecca and Cleo.  Phileas, in direct disobedience of his cousin's order to rest his injured leg, stood gazing out at the city below.  He used a pair of binoculars to keep track of the pair.  Passepartout, his face shining, stood at the huge round 'wheel,' changing course at his master's command.

                *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Rebecca was hard put to keep up with Cleo.  The little dog was amazingly hardy, and moved with surprising speed down the city streets.  Once or twice she paused, her bright eyes lifting and looking about eagerly.  Rebecca swore ever afterwards that the dog found her way by reading the street signs.

At last, they reached a mean little street, full of warehouses, not far from the docks.  Cleo gave an excited yip and darted down a narrow, fetid little alley.  Grimacing with distaste, Rebecca followed.

It was getting late, but she could still see fairly well.  The dog ran over to the side of a building, and began whining eagerly at the ground.  Coming closer, Rebecca could just make out a tiny window, just above ground level.  Quickly she pulled out her torch, and played it over the opening.  She knelt down, calling, "Jules?  Jules are you down there?"

There was no answer from the cellar.  Swallowing her disappointment, she leaned closer and tried to shine the light down into the room below.

"Well, Poopsie," she murmured, "if you've led us on a wild goose chase Phileas will -" she stopped and snatched eagerly at something caught in the rusty grille.

"Dog hair," she breathed triumphantly.  "'Dog hair, everywhere.'"  Several clumps of long, fine white hair had been caught on the rough edges of the grille.  She looked down at Cleo with shining eyes.  "Poopsie, you're amazing."

She stepped back and shone her light up at the *Aurora.*  An answering flash told her that her signal had been seen.  Phileas, she knew, would be descending directly.

Rebecca abandoned her hampering skirts in the alley and moved swiftly and silently toward the door of the house.  There was a light burning behind the door.   Fogg came limping quickly up and stationed himself on the opposite side of the door.

Passepartout, steering the *Aurora,* would signal if anyone tried to escape the building.

The two cousins looked at each other.  There was a silent count, and then Phileas kicked the door in.  Rebecca cast a swift look around the room, and darted inside, gun drawn and pointing at the rooms sole occupant.  Her gun was held unwaveringly, directed at an old man who sat quivering beside a rickety table.  Fogg flew through the door in her wake, sweeping the room with his own gun, before crossing over to glance into the room beyond.  "Empty," he observed.  Cleo darted between his legs, ran over to a closed door, and began scrabbling anxiously at it, whining frantically.  Fogg, his gun trained on the old man, nodded to Rebecca, who carefully went over to the door and opened it.  

It led to a dark cellar.  Cleo flew down the steps.  Rebecca stepped down onto the stair and shone her torch around the room.  She turned back to her cousin, "He's not here."  Down in the cellar, Cleo gave a despairing howl, and came back up into the room.  She stood in front of the old man, bared her teeth, and began to growl with astonishing ferocity.  She actually sounded quite dangerous.

The old man stared in shock at his three visitors.  He was of medium height, with fierce, beady eyes, a grizzled chin, and large, strong hands.  He wore the rough, stained garments of a dockside laborer.  Several dirty glasses and an empty bottle of rum sat on the table beside him.  

Phileas stepped closer to the old man, the gun pointed directly at his face.  "Where is he?"  He asked in a low voice.

"D - don't know what you're talking about," the old man answered in a blustering tone.  "You've just broken into my home.  I - I should have the law on you."  His nervous gaze shifted from Fogg to Rebecca to the dog, which was still growling at him.  "Keep that mongrel away from me," he snarled, kicking out at the dog.  Cleo deftly evaded the blow and began growling more loudly.

Phileas, looking like nothing on earth, stepped forward and placed the muzzle of the gun against the old man's forehead.

"I will ask once more," he hissed.  "Where is Jules Verne?"

The old man's face turned a sickly grey.  Sweat beaded on his forehead.  The sound of the dog's growling seemed to fill the room.  "I - I don't know nothin' 'bout no Jules Verne," he repeated stubbornly.  

Rebecca interrupted him.  "Nothing, eh?" she asked.  "Where did you get this?"  She had been searching the other rooms and now stepped forward, holding Jules's coat and watch.  She walked over to the old man and held the items in front of him, one brow cocked mockingly.

"Ah," smiled Phileas coldly.  "That most definitely is 'something.'" He turned back to the man, and pressed the gun more firmly to his head.  "Now, then, for the last time, what have you done with the man who wore this coat?"  He spoke each word slowly and distinctly, gazing fixedly into his captive's eyes.

The old man stared up at Phileas' face in absolute horror.  Never in a long and wicked life had he seen anything to equal Fogg's blazing fury.  Phileas' very skin seemed to glow with an inner fire, and his eyes were twin pools of incandescent light.

"All right," he choked, "I'll talk.  You - you just move that gun a little."  He raised a hand as though to push the gun away and Phileas shifted, and cocked the hammer.

That tiny click sounded like the crack of doom.  With a little cry the old man closed his eyes.  "Told 'em.  Told 'em, I did.  No trouble, don't want no trouble."   Frantically he looked up at Rebecca.  "Told 'em it was plain foolish.   You'll get caught, I said, and I was right."

Fogg opened his mouth, impatience written large upon his face.  The old man gave a frightened gasp and hurried on.  "The docks.  They've taken him to the docks.  The Captain of the *Mary Lou* - he ain't too particular where some of his crew comes from - so long as they're able to work.  They've taken him there."

Fogg and Rebecca exchanged glances.  Rebecca gave a little nod, and Phileas stepped back, gently uncocking and lowering the gun.  The old man's eyes rolled up in his head, and he collapsed in a dead faint.  Cleo stalked over and sniffed at him, then turned away with a disdainful little snort.

Back aboard the *Aurora,* the cousin's quickly filled Passepartout in on what they had learned.

"Shanghaied," Passepartout repeated, rolling the word carefully around on his tongue.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," answered Rebecca.  She stood out on the deck, scanning the area below with her glasses.  Suddenly she stiffened.  "Phileas, come here."

Fogg strode over and took the glasses from her.  He looked where she indicated and then lowered the glasses, smiling.  "The *Mary Lou.*  There are lights on in the main cabin."  He turned to Passepartout.  "Take us down, Passepartout."  He pointed to the wide clear space between the warehouses and the docks.  "Land us right there."  He stared eagerly at the *Mary Lou.*

"Hang on, Jules," Rebecca said exultantly.  "We're coming!"

 Chapter 6 of 6: The Daring Rescue (Poopsie Saves the Day)

By now it was quite dark.  They were able to land the *Aurora* with no difficulty and left Cleo tied up on the dirigible.  She cast them all a very reproachful look.  "Now, be quiet, Poopsie," Passepartout whispered.  "We are going to save Master Jules from the evil shanghaiers."

Silently, the trio crept toward the ship.  There was no one out on the docks or on the deck of the *Mary Lou.*  They could see lights coming from the forward cabin.  They paused at the door, listening.

"A good strong lad, just like the others," said a cold, oily voice.

Another voice, roughened by a life spent shouting over the roar of the sea, answered the first.  "Well, and so he seems.  Let me have a look."  There was a scuffling sound.  "Faugh!  Look at those hands," he exclaimed scornfully.  "They're as soft as a girl's.  He'll be no use to me.  I need men who can work."

"And so he will," the other voice replied coaxingly.  "A touch o' the whip, and he'll work all day."  He laughed, nastily.

"Yes, beat him well," another voice chimed in.  "Maybe then the bastard'll learn not to go sniffing round another man's property."  His tone was vengeful.

"Eh, what's this?" the seaman laughed.  "Poaching on your manor, was he?"  He continued chuckling for a moment, thinking it over.  "Well, all right, then, I'll take him.  Perhaps there's more to him than I thought.  Here's your fee."  There was a sound of coins being counted out.

"I think we've heard enough," whispered Rebecca.  "Remember, be careful with our guns, we don't want to hit Jules."

Fogg nodded, and Passepartout flung the door open.  Fogg stepped inside, holding his gun on the room's startled occupants.

It was a fair sized cabin, with a narrow desk and a couple of chairs.  In the center of the room stood one large grizzled man, who looked to be the Captain, holding a small bag in one hand, and several coins in the other.  A tall, weasel-faced man with pock-marked cheeks stood before him, one hand still outstretched for the payment.  An angry-looking young man stood at his side. Two men stood holding Verne by the arms.  The writer sagged a little, still groggy.  His hands were tied and a burlap sack covered his head.  The first mate stood at the paper-covered desk.  Two more sailors stood near the door.  They all stood frozen as Phileas entered the room.

"Gentlemen," Phileas said politely, as Rebecca and Passepartout slipped into the room behind him, weapons drawn.  "I must ask you to release that man and come with me."

"Come with you, sir?"  Growled the Captain.  "And where will we be going?"

Phileas raised his brows in surprise.  "Why, to jail, of course.  On charges of assault and abduction at the very least."

The Captain laughed scornfully.  "You must think I'm a fool, sir," he roared, throwing the coins in Fogg's face.  At the same time the first mate threw the stack of papers on the desk at Rebecca and Passepartout.  Passepartout leapt forward and grappled with him as Rebecca dodged a blow from the weasel-faced man.

The two men near the door turned on Fogg and he found himself very busy avoiding their blows while firmly planting a few of his own.  One of the men struck the gun from his hand with a heavy cudgel, sending Phileas's weapon flying across the room.  Fogg had to leap back to avoid a crippling blow from the man with the cudgel.  He slipped on some of the scattered papers and fell to one knee, desperately blocking another blow from his other opponent.  The cudgel-wielder leapt forward, weapon raised.

Passepartout saw that his master was in danger.  He raised his gun, but was unable to get a clear shot.  He threw his gun to Phileas, calling, "Look up, Master!"  At the same instant, the man with the cudgel stepped forward.  The gun never reached Fogg's outstretched hand, instead striking the cudgel-wielder in the back of the head with terrific force.  The unfortunate villain gave a little cry and fell over, his weapon falling from nerveless fingers.  Fogg regained his feet and launched himself at his other attacker.

Now unarmed, Passepartout grabbed up a chair and brought it crashing down on his nearest assailant's head.  The unfortunate villain went down in a tangle of arms, legs, and splintered wood.  One of the two men holding Jules abandoned his post, and headed into battle against the valet.

Rebecca's gun miss-fired.  With a very unladylike curse, she threw the useless weapon at the nearest of her attackers.  It clipped the weasel-faced villain neatly in the ear and he staggered for a moment, dazed.  She snatched up a dry mop, which had been standing in an empty bucket in one corner of the room.  She poked her other foe in the mid-section with one end, then hit him over the head with the other.  The man fell instantly, and lay groaning on the floor.

"Miss Rebecca!"  Called Passepartout, his arms raised over his head.  Two of the ruffians had backed him into a corner.  She tossed the mop to him and whacked her still-dazed first adversary on the head with the bucket.  He spun around and fell most satisfactorily.

The valet caught the mop and swung it at his adversaries like a quarterstaff.  One of the men grabbed the mop head and tried to pull the makeshift weapon from Passepartout's grasp.  Passepartout kicked him in the knee, causing the ruffian to let go of the mop.  By this time, the valet's first opponent was trying to rise.  Passepartout hit him with the mop, and the handle snapped in two.  "Oopsie!"  He said, and dodged nimbly around the man in front of him.  He recovered both halves of the mop and began swinging them wildly at his foes.

Jules, though blindfolded and with hands tied, also did his part.  He stamped hard on the foot of his remaining captor, causing the man to swear loudly and let go of his arm.  He lunged enthusiastically at the villain, and managed to send him to the floor.  Unfortunately, Jules fell too, but he landed on top of the ruffian and kicked and struck out blindly.  By chance he managed to grab the man by the hair and banged his head several times on the floor.  

"How does that feel, you villain?"  He cried rather wildly.  "Now YOU know how it feels

to be hit on the head!"

The Captain had snatched up Phileas' fallen gun.  Now he leaped forward and grabbed Jules by the collar.  He gave a loud roar and the combatants stopped fighting and looked at him.

"Give it up!"  He shouted, "or this laddie takes a bullet."  He shoved the gun against Jules' head.  Jules, his head still covered by the burlap sack, tried to pull away, but the Captain's grip held firm.

Phileas stood near the door, clutching one man by the coat, his other fist drawn back to deliver a terrific blow.  Another man lay slumped on the floor.  Rebecca stood over two fallen men.  Passepartout held the broken mop, one half in each hand.  Three groaning men lay at his feet.

"I'm not jokin'," snarled the Captain.  "I'll kill him."

Fogg straightened, and let go of his adversary.  The man staggered, bleeding, over to the Captain, who began backing toward the door, dragging the struggling Jules along with him.  He motioned Fogg to move away, and Phileas slowly obeyed, his unblinking gaze fixed on the Captain's face.  Two of the other men began to stir.

The Captain stood in the doorway, a look of triumph in his eyes.  "You'll not catch me," he gloated, and pointed the gun at Phileas.

Suddenly he let out a roar of pain.  The gun discharged, the bullet flying harmlessly into the ceiling.  He staggered back and let go of Jules.  A snarling bundle of white fur had attached itself firmly to his leg.

Little Cleo had slipped her leash and crept onto the boat.  She had seen the Captain about to leave with Jules, and pointing something at Phileas.  With a banshee howl she had launched herself at the villain, sinking her sharp teeth firmly into the fleshy part of his calf.

Fogg threw himself at the Captain, with a look of savage eagerness in his eyes.  

Passepartout whacked the two recovering men on the head with the broken mop halves and then twirled them like batons.  "Hit him, Master!" he cheered.  

The Captain got in a few heavy blows, but was hampered by Cleo, still clinging to his leg.  It did not help at all that Fogg was wild with rage, and fought with the savagery of a dozen men.

Jules, his head still covered by the bag, flung himself forward, managing by purest luck to run headlong into the sole remaining villain.  He butted the ruffian in the stomach with his head, and knocked him down.  In an unthinking fury, he continued whirling around, kicking, stamping, and yelling imprecations against the villains who had abducted him.  Every time his foot encountered something yielding he would give vent to a savage kick.  The moans and grunts of pain from his victims seemed merely to fuel his anger.

"Jules," Rebecca cried, as he careened madly past her, just missing her by inches.  "Jules!"  She grabbed him by the arm and tried to force him to stop.   His momentum kept him swinging around her like a pendulum for a few staggering steps, but then her voice seemed to penetrate the red rage that filled him and he came to a stop.  "Jules, it's all over," she said gently.  

Jules stood trembling as she pulled the sack from his head and began to untie his hands.  He looked around in confusion.  "Rebecca?" he gasped.  He stared dazedly around the room at all the bodies lying concussed on the floor.  "Did - did I do that?" he asked.

Fogg stepped away from his unconscious foe with a look of intense satisfaction.  He came limping over to Jules and Rebecca, wiping blood from his chin.  "Part of it," he smiled, and clapped his friend on the shoulder.  Jules sagged, exhausted, and Phileas slipped his arm around the young writer's shoulders, holding him up.  Rebecca laughed, and hugged Jules, giving him an impulsive kiss on the cheek.  "What did I tell you about going into dark alleys?" she scolded.  Jules, blushing, shook his head.  

Passepartout tossed the mop handles away and scooped up the little dog.

"Poopsie," he cried exultantly.  "You have saved the day!"

"Yes," smiled Phileas, "She certainly did."

                *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *

Early the next afternoon they all sat around the tea table talking over the entire affair.  Jules, slightly bruised and still a little dazed, sat holding his teacup and looking happily around at his friends.  Fogg had a bruise to go with the cut on his face, and sat with his injured leg stretched out on a footstool.  Of the humans, only Rebecca and Passepartout had escaped injury.  Cleo, fresh from a bath and a vigorous brushing, sat on the floor at Phileas' feet, hoping for tidbits.

Phileas, looking tired but very pleased with himself, took a sip from his teacup and continued his report to Jules.

"And so Captain Jenks resisted because he knew he would be implicated in your abduction, Verne.  His men fought for the same reason.  Certainly they knew that occasionally some members of their crew were less than eager to join.  Thank heaven, the majority of the crew were out on shore leave, or we might have had a bit of trouble."  

Verne laughed, and then sobered abruptly.  "I wonder how many other young men Jenks has shanghaied, worked half to death, and then abandoned on some lonely shore.  Or worse -"

"Let's not dwell on that now, Jules," Phileas said quietly.  "Let us only be thankful we were able to get to you in time."

Jules swallowed, and looked down at his plate.  His hand trembled slightly.  He clenched his fist to hide the spasm.  Passepartout, watching him closely, quickly got up and refilled his teacup.  Jules looked up at the valet.  "Thank you, Passepartout," he murmured.  

Phileas sat looking at the young writer, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.  He glanced over t his cousin.  She met his gaze and he could tell from her expression that she shared his thoughts.  *Jules should not be left alone for a while.  We'll make him stay in London for a few weeks.  He must be distracted from brooding over this experience.*  Rebecca nodded.  She quite agreed that Jules needed time to recover from this adventure.

Passepartout, unaware of the silent communication between the cousins, beamed happily at Verne.  "Of course, Master Jules."

"Well, Chatsworth is hoping to get more out of that lot before the trial."  Rebecca calmly interposed, daintily brushing crumbs from her fingers.  "Although the Captain is rather resisting the idea.  But I think the first mate will decide to turn Queen's Evidence, in hope of a reduced sentence.  Of the four men who abducted you, Jules," she added, "three of them have been implicated in the abduction of the other poor devil the authorities found tied up in the hold."

"What about the old man you and Miss Rebecca saw in the wearing-house, Master?"  asked Passepartout.

"Ah, now, his name is Graves."  Phileas replied drily.  "He is the proud father of Tom, the weasel-faced, er, person who was selling Jules to Captain Jenks.  It seems young Tom has a bit of a reputation for trouble.  He's been in the dock twice before, for selling stolen goods, but managed to get off both times."

"He certainly won't get off this time," Rebecca observed with satisfaction.  She bent over to pat Cleo, who kept her eyes firmly fixed on Phileas' plate.

"No, indeed," Fogg replied.  "Nor his father, who was in on the whole plan up to his neck.  It was he who introduced Tom to the good Captain."

"And the League of Darkness had nothing to do with it."  Jules marveled.  "I can hardly believe I was abducted simply because a tutor was jealous of my attentions to Arabella.  I only met her that morning."

Rebecca shrugged.  "Well, apparently Gerard is a very jealous young man.  Poor Miss Lawrence has had quite a time trying to convince him of her complete indifference to him.  Then she met you, Jules, and waxed a trifle too enthusiastically about you to her maid.  Unfortunately, Gerard was eavesdropping and heard it all.  Since he wanted her for himself, the thought of losing her to a rival made him go half mad.  When he learned she had told you what time she and Lady Wentworth would be visiting the milliner's shop that afternoon, he decided to do something about you if you made an appearance.  Which, of course, you did.   He talked it over with his cousin, Tom, who was being temporarily employed by Lady Wentworth as a groom, and young Graves said he knew of an excellent way to solve the entire problem.  So the young idiot paid his cousin to carry you off, and put you on a boat headed for the Colonies.  As it happens, he didn't find out until later the Captain was also paying Graves to bring him other able-bodied men to work as forced labor on his ship."

"Very enterprising of young Graves," approved Fogg.  "He'll go far, I'm sure."

"Very far," Rebecca answered drily.  "Chatsworth was saying something about deportation for the lot of them."

"It is serving them right," Passepartout said indignantly.

"I had an interesting chat with Lady Wentworth this morning," Rebecca added.  "She found it very difficult to believe her grandchildren's favorite tutor had been arrested for carrying out an abduction.  She was quite put out by the whole thing, and seemed to feel the entire affair was in very bad taste."  

Phileas chuckled.  "Indeed," he remarked.  "I know the lady.  She has a veritable passion for proper conduct at all times."

Rebecca nodded.  "Oh, yes.  I had the impression she found my part in the affair quite shocking and rather scandalous," she grinned.  "But she felt quite sorry for you, Jules," she added, turning to him.  "You made quite an impression on her when she saw you talking to Miss Lawrence.  Apparently," with a mischievous glance at Phileas, "she simply adores little dogs.  I fear she may invite you for tea in a day or two, after - now how did she say it?   Ah yes, 'After the poor boy has had time to recover from his *dreadful* ordeal.'"  She tilted her head, deepened her voice and spoke very grandly