he witnesses in the case, which had some connection with the arms
intended for "Mr. Kershaw." He could not do so, he said, as he had a
previous engagement--which happened to be with Arthur Forrester and some
witnesses on the other side. But, he continued, he would be glad to see
them on the following day. Where could he see them? At Scotland Yard;
and at Scotland Yard, accordingly, he met them, where they showed him,
as an evidence of the desperate characters they had to deal with--his
own case of arms!

They told him of the pleasant evening he had missed, the only drawback
being, they said, that one of the witnesses, named Corydon, got drunk
and was very troublesome.

This reminds me of another case, in connection with which I, at the
time, fully expected to be arrested. The reader can form his own
conclusion, but my impression was, and is, that I owed my safety to a
gentleman I shall now introduce. Detective Superintendent Laurence
Kehoe, of Liverpool, was a very decent man in his way. He was by no
means of the type of John Boyle O'Reilly or the Breslins, who have shown
that in the British army and in the police force there have been men,
mostly compelled by adverse circumstances, who have for a time worn the
blue, or green, or scarlet coat of Britain without changing the Irish
heart beneath.

No; Larry (as he was generally called) was nothing of the kind. Still, I
believe he faithfully did his duty according to his lights, in the
service in which he was engaged. He was a conscientious Catholic, and a
son of his is a most respected priest in the diocese of Liverpool. He
was a kind-hearted, charitable man, always ready to do a good turn,
particularly for a fellow-countryman. If an Irish policeman called his
attention to some poor waif of an Irish child who had lost its parents,
or was in evil surroundings--having parents worse than none, or in
danger of losing its faith--Laurence Kehoe would take the matter in
hand. He would not always go through the formality of bringing the case
of such child under the notice of the managers of one or other of the
Catholic orphanages. When I was Secretary of Father Nugent's Boys'
Refuge, he brought one of these waifs to the Brother Director, and
claimed admittance for him. The place was full, the Brother said--it
could not be done. Without another word Kehoe left the child on the
doorstep, and simply saying, "Good-night," left Brother Tertullian
sorely perplexed, but with no alter