Jasper, controlling his voice with an effort, ordered the car to be brought round for him in a quarter of an hour, and after the man had left the room, he took a bunch of keys, and, selecting one, opened a drawer in his bureau. From it he took a small fortune in notes and gold, and going to his bedroom he changed his evening clothes for a blue serge suit and put on a heavy travelling ulster. As he made his way down-stairs he heard the throbbing of the engine at the door.
At half-past eight that evening Jasper Jarman slid out of Kidderminster in his Napier car, and in a wonderfully short space of time pulled up at the Warwick Arms Hotel at Warwick. Here he dismissed the car, and after a light supper took train to London.
From a paper he bought at Euston he learnt nothing further relating to his case, but after a day or two spent in London, he read the tidings that his identity had been established, and that an officer who had been dispatched to interview him, not finding him at his house, had applied for a warrant for his apprehension.
On the shattered brain of the poor man this news had a terrible effect. He saw at once that his flight would be looked upon as a sign of his guilt, and he racked his brain for the name of some country where the laws of extradition were lax. The Argentine rose to his mind, but he had no idea of going so far from England unless it were absolutely necessary. He preferred somewhere where the living would be more or less civilized and where he could be handy for return when circumstances permitted.
Spain he had heard of, but that was some time ago and there might be new laws now. Then the fate that has the moving of the pieces in life's chessboard whispered in his ear—San Pietro.
Even at this late hour he told himself that it were better for him to face the music, but the good common sense of Stone-wall Jarman was in a state of complete disorganization, and to his panic-distorted brain flight seemed the only thing possible.
His wife would be interrogated, but he was convinced that the machinery of the law could not touch her. For himself, on the other hand, there was a definite issue: if he returned it would be undoubtedly to stand his trial, and he knew what that meant even if he was acquitted, which he was not at all sure would be the case. In any event he said he would be ruined beyond redemption, and his reputation would become the legitimate sport of his many enemies, political and social, in Kidderminster. The fact would remain that he, Jasper Jarman, had stood in the dock beside a man like Povey, who had claimed him as a relative! Far rather would he spend the rest of his days in exile; it would mean leaving the country in any case, and by doing it now he would escape the ordeal that he feared. "DO IT NOW"—that's what was on a little printed card in his office—and he had made it his motto.
Again, how could he hope to explain his hurried and agitated flight from Adderbury Cottage, taking place as it did immediately after the publication in the Evening News of Kyser's death? People would never believe the evidence of the bad drainage if Povey liked to deny it—as he doubtless would. Edward Povey to Jasper's mind was a guilty man, and he attributed to him all the motives and actions of the most hardened of criminals; he would only be too glad to whitewash himself at the expense of his uncle.
The morning after Mr. Jarman's arrival in London, he had called on his bank and drawn a considerable sum of money in cash. It was not without fear and trepidation that he had done this, but he had told himself that it was then or never, and the hue and cry had not really begun. The manager had met him, and there was no suspicion in his manner. This important point settled, Jasper Jarman had made all haste to shake the dust of his native country from the soles of his "sensible shape" boots.
It was a dull, dripping evening when the carpet manufacturer stood on Paddington platform, waiting for the through express for Cardiff. He was rather a different man to the Jasper Jarman who had only a few nights previously been reading in his library at "Holmstrand." He had shaved off his moustache and side-whiskers, and his iron-grey hair he had attempted to dye black, in which endeavour he had been successful—in patches—and to hide this piebald appearance he had taken to a larger brimmed soft hat. He was buttoned up to the chin in his heavy ulster, and a muffler covered his mouth. He looked for all the world what he was—a disguised man. Had there been a detective watching for him on that train—which there was not—Jasper would have been the first man to merit his attention. His manner, too, was furtive and full of suspicion as he glanced from under the brim of his hat at each passer-by.