I was staking everything on one chance, that Paula Lebetwood had remembered the references to the Bonnet yacht and that my ticket-taking and perhaps the mud from my boots would serve to concentrate the attention of the authorities upon Bristol. If Jack and Mary hadn’t altered their plans, they would be slipping out of harbour this morning with the tide, probably five hours before the dogs of righteousness would arrive hungry at the docks. It seemed reasonable that the authorities should assume that I was aboard the barque. I knew for certain that she carried no wireless, and that barring an unexpected encounter there was no chance of police disillusionment until she put in in Norway—or Africa.
I intended never to be seen unless for urgent cause, and then, if possible, by the under-intelligent. Empty compartments on fast trains by night were to be had for the taking, and even if the expresses should be crowded, the stopping trains were available, though on them it would be necessary to turn out at every station. In the barely credible contingency of my being nipped and made to pay my fare, I had plenty of money, for I had cashed a fairly large cheque before setting out for Aidenn Forest, and I had not stopped to tip the servants before leaving Highglen House. The train by night and secluded slumber by day; these were indicated for my recovery.
I shall not detail my week-long, decidedly boring expedition to Hull. After a couple of days my personal appearance became run-down, and I dropped into a small market town on market day, asked a constable directing traffic to assist me to a hairdresser’s, found the place down a dark dead-end and up a shaky stair, and enjoyed a haircutting, shampoo, and shave. I told the attendant that I looked and felt a new man, bought a packet of safety-razor blades, tipped him enough but not too much, chatted pleasantly about the price of heifers, and departed.
About nine that evening, in a restaurant in a larger town, I expressed a predilection for pickled walnuts.
Not long afterwards I stepped out of a station wash-room, an unobtrusive dark gentleman to the roots of my hair, with eyebrows that gave a special appearance to my face.
I carried a passport, thanks to Jack and Mary. From Hull one Albert Barrerdale sailed eight days after Alfred Bannerlee had stumbled out of the Hall of the Moth. Praises be for the men who are supposed to scrutinize the details on passports, and don’t.
Now on my Mediterranean island (whose name, pardon me, I do not mean to give) I enjoy perpetual sun and the fruits of never-ceasing summer. I might rest here secure for the term of my natural life, and I might achieve a sort of happiness, for here no sensuous pleasure is withheld from man. Air, sea, and land conspire to lull the soul, and at night from the village creep up strains of music sweet and spicy. I might remain—but I think I shall move on.
The Bonnets saved me; no doubt of that. Overweening sleuth-hounds met a sharp rebuff three months later when the Bonnet barque, not having touched at any port, returned to Bristol dock. The emphatic statement of Jack and Mary that I had not been on board, a statement which they later attested in order to dispel public mutterings against their veracity, stunned the police, who had been sitting back and waiting for me to be delivered up to them from India or Madagascar. The hounds then were willing, but found no scent. Moreover, since I had not been aboard the barque, they knew that I could not have escaped from England, knowledge that must have proved rather a hindrance than a help.
The diary reached me in a picturesque village in a small Balkan country. Its disappearance that night, by the way, gave rise to the amazing belief among several of my fellow-guests that I had secreted myself within the House, and the consequence was a general desertion next day. After receiving the pages, I carried them with me for weeks before lighting on my isle and commencing my work anew. Now the manuscript is ready to return, rounded, coherent, and decked with proper ornament.