"Not at all, papa. It is as in a shipwreck, where the plank that will
save two will sink with three. The stratagem that will rescue _us_ would
be probably marred by _him_, and, besides, he'll provide for his own
safety better than we should."

Thus talking, they entered the little village, where, although not
yet daybreak, a small _cafe_ was open,--one of those humble
refreshment-houses frequented by peasants on their way to their daily
toil.

"Let us breakfast here," said she, "while they are getting ready some
light carriage to carry us on to St. Grail. I have an old friend there,
the prior of the monastery, who used to be very desirous to convert me
long ago. I intend to give him a week or ten days' trial now, papa; and
he may also, if he feel so disposed, experiment upon _you_."

It was in this easy chit-chat they sat down to their coffee in the
little inn at Rorschach. They were soon, however, on the road again,
sealed in a little country carriage drawn by a stout mountain pony.

"Strange enough all this adventure seems," said she, as they ascended
the steep mountain on foot, to relieve the weary beast. "Sometimes
it appears all like a dream to me, and now, when I look over the lake
there, and see the distant spires of Bregenz yonder, I begin to believe
that there is reality in it, and that we are acting in a true drama."

Holmes paid but little attention to her words, wrapped up as he was in
some details he was reading in a newspaper he had carried away from the
_Cafe_.

"What have you found to interest you so much there, papa?" asked she, at
last.

Still he made no reply, but read on.

"It can scarcely be that you are grown a politician again," continued
she, laughingly, "and pretend to care for Austria or for Italy."

"This is all about Paten," said he, eagerly. "There's the whole account
of it."

"Account of what?" cried she, trying to snatch the paper from him.

"Of his death."

"His death! Is he dead? Is Paten dead?" She had to clutch his arm
as she spoke to support herself, and it was only with the greatest
difficulty that she kept her feet. "How was it? Tell me how he came by
his death. Was it O'Shea?"

"No, he was killed. The man who did it has given himself up, alleging
that it was in an altercation between them; a pistol, aimed at his own
breast, discharged its contents in Paten's."

She tore the paper from his hand, and, tottering over to a bank on the
roadside, bent down to read it.