“Mr. Tanner,” she said as she held out her hand, “I would like to thank you for the way you told your story.”
Outside the Yard she dismissed Daunt.
“I am going to write to Austin,” she announced. “I shall leave the letter at your office shortly after lunch, then, like a dear man, you will take it to him immediately, and bring me the answer.”
“Of course, I will, old girl,” Daunt answered her as they parted.
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.”
Austin looked sharply at the speaker.
“I didn’t say so,” he answered dryly, “but—stop, let me think a moment.”
For some minutes silence reigned in the gloomy cell. To Daunt it had seemed as if his client was on the verge of a confession, and he wondered if one more sordid story was to be added to the list of those to which the grey walls of this grim apartment had in all probability listened. Austin sat motionless, his mind evidently engrossed with some problem, the solution of which eluded him. But at last he seemed to find it. Straightening himself up, he faced the solicitor.
“This news you have brought makes a tremendous difference to me,” he said. “From my point of view there is no longer any reason why the events of that tragic night should not be known. I have remained silent for two reasons. First, because of my mother. The thought of her learning that she was still the wife of that drunken scoundrel was more than I could bear. You’ll understand my feelings—the whole thing is so painful I hate to speak of it. Then there was another reason. I made the unforgivable blunder of being afraid to tell Miss Drew. I have paid for that already, and every bit of that payment I deserve ten times over. I distrusted her. I thought if the circumstances of my birth came out she might have nothing more to do with me. And I just couldn’t risk that. You see, it was not as if there had been any deliberate evil on my parents’ part. Both were utterly innocent, and even ignorant that anything was wrong. Therefore I could not see that I was called upon to chance the wrecking of my happiness on what was after all a mere technical matter only. God forgive me, I did not intend to tell that angel. I feared the stigma would remain. Well, I have suffered for it. As I ought to have known, she was above a petty feeling of that
