CHAPTER XV. In the Luce Manor Boathouse That same evening Daunt paid his promised visit to Austin Ponson. He found his client seated despondently in his cell, his head resting on his hands. Like Dale, he had aged since his arrest. His face was pale and drawn, his eyes weary, and as he moved his head a suspicion of grey showed at his temples. His manner had lost its old ease and lightness, and it was evident that the crisis through which he was passing would leave its mark on him for many a day to come. ‘I have something for you, Mr Ponson,’ the solicitor said as he sat down and felt in his pocket for Lois’s letter. ‘You are to let me have an answer.’ Austin’s eyes lit up as he saw the handwriting, and he seized the note with eagerness. To let him read it in peace, Daunt drew some papers from his pocket and began to study them. But he hadn’t done so for many seconds when an exclamation drew his attention back to the other. Austin Ponson had risen to his feet and was excitedly pacing the cell. He was a transformed man. A smile was on his lips, his eyes were shining, and his face had a rapt and beatific expression, like that of a man who sees a vision of angels. ‘My Heavens!’ he cried, ‘_What_ a girl! She’s beyond anything I could have imagined. One in a thousand millions! I can hardly realise it. I tell you, Daunt, if I never get out of this hell again, it’s been worth it. It would be worth any suffering to get such a letter. Tell her—But you can’t tell her. Nor I. No one could ever tell her what I feel.’ He paused and looked at the other, then resumed his hurried pacing. ‘I swear that if I get out of this place, I’ll make it up to her. I’ll live for her day and night, and for nothing else. She’ll never regret what she has done—that is,’ he sank into his chair and the dejected look returned to his face, ‘if I ever do get out.’ ‘You forget, Mr Ponson, that I don’t know what’s in your note.’ Austin stared. ‘You don’t?’ he queried in surprise. ‘Why, she tells me the whole thing’s out—that Tom Dale has been found, and that she knows about my father’s marriage and my birth. And’—his face lit up and he spoke triumphantly—‘she says she doesn’t mind—that it will make no difference to’—he paused as if for a word, then concluded—‘her feelings towards me. What do you think of that?’ ‘I congratulate you very heartily, Mr Ponson,’ Daunt replied, though with a mental reservation. ‘But I can assure you that so far as I am aware, the whole thing is anything but “out”. It is true the identity of William Douglas with Tom Dale has been discovered, and the effect his existence has on the validity of your father’s marriage is known. But that is all. No explanation of the murder has yet come to light. And, after all, that is really what matters.’ ‘Has Dale admitted his identity?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘And has he made no statement about what took place in the boathouse?’ ‘None. But, Mr Ponson, that remark implies to me that you were there yourself and know.’