“Then, I suppose,” said Lady Helena, “the wicked wretch had got work on Paddy O’Moore’s farm with a criminal intent?”
“There is not the least doubt of it. He was planning some evil design against the Irishman, when a better chance presented itself. Chance led us into his presence. He heard Paganel’s story and all about the shipwreck, and the audacious fellow determined to act his part immediately. The expedition was decided on. At the Wimerra he found means of communicating with one of his gang, the blacksmith of Black Point, and left traces of our journey which might be easily recognized. The gang followed us. A poisonous plant enabled them gradually to kill our bullocks and horses. At the right moment he sunk us in the marshes of the Snowy, and gave us into the hands of his gang.”
Such was the history of Ben Joyce. The Major had shown him up in his character—a bold and formidable criminal. His manifestly evil designs called for the utmost vigilance on the part of Glenarvan. Happily the unmasked bandit was less to be feared than the traitor.
But one serious consequence must come out of this revelation; no one had thought of it yet except Mary Grant. John Mangles was the first to notice her pale, despairing face; he understood what was passing in her mind at a glance.
“Miss Mary! Miss Mary!” he cried; “you are crying!”
“Crying, my child!” said Lady Helena.
“My father, madam, my father!” replied the poor girl.
She could say no more, but the truth flashed on every mind. They all knew the cause of her grief, and why tears fell from her eyes and her father’s name came to her lips.
The discovery of Ayrton’s treachery had destroyed all hope; the convict had invented a shipwreck to entrap Glenarvan. In the conversation overheard by McNabbs, the convicts had plainly said that the BRITANNIA had never been wrecked on the rocks in Twofold Bay. Harry Grant had never set foot on the Australian continent!
A second time they had been sent on the wrong track by an erroneous interpretation of the document. Gloomy silence fell on the whole party at the sight of the children’s sorrow, and no one could find a cheering word to say. Robert was crying in his sister’s arms. Paganel muttered in a tone of vexation: “That unlucky document! It may boast of having half-crazed a dozen peoples’ wits!” The worthy geographer was in such a rage with himself, that he struck his forehead as if he would smash it in.