“‘Never mind, get him,’ said the wild Irishman. ‘He’s young, and they say he’s mad, but he might bring us luck.’ “‘For a chap with as brilliant a set of brains as are to be found in London,’ said I, ‘you do come out with some of the oddest suggestions. How did you come to think of this fellow Northcote, when you won’t allow Harris and Westby to be good enough?’ “‘Oh,’ said he, ‘he’s one of my inspirations,’ “‘Inspiration my foot!’ said I. ‘I’m off to Christopher Harris.’ “Well, as I was about to go, poor Tobin raised himself again, and those queer eyes came at me in a way I don’t like. “‘Look here, Whitcomb,’ he said; ‘you were a pal to me when I had hardly a boot to my foot, but if you go to Harris I’ll never speak to you again.’ “‘Lie down, you damned Celt, and go to sleep,’ I said, ‘and I’ll come and talk to you another day.’ “‘I won’t lie down until you promise to go to Northcote at No. 3 Shepherd’s Inn.’ “‘King’s Bench Walk,’ I assured him, ‘will be far better. If I can’t have a reckless fellow like you, I mean to play for safety.’ “‘All the safety in the world,’ said he, ‘won’t save the poor beggar’s neck.’ “‘That’s all very well,’ said I, ‘but an inexperienced man might come a dreadful cropper in a case of this kind. I believe myself in a moderate amount of speculation, but not in a capital charge.’ “‘It’s her only chance,’ said the Irishman. “‘I am afraid,’ said I, ‘her attorneys are not willing to provide her with it at the risk of decency.’ “‘There’s your Saxon,’ said he. ‘Even when they hang a woman, they insist on decency. Praise be to the saints, we haven’t got any decency in our dirty old island.’ “‘No,’ said I; ‘but you’ve got a good deal of superstition. Whatever put this fellow Northcote into your wild head? I never remember to have heard of him in court.’ “‘I don’t care what you’ve heard of him,’ said the Irishman, ‘this is where he gets his chance. He’ll bring us luck.’ “‘Luck!’ said I. ‘A lawyer’s luck is based on common sense and the capacity to see into the future.’ “‘We crack-brained Celts possess that capacity,’ said Tobin. ‘You can come and tell me on Monday whether I’ve been wrong.’ “‘Is Northcote an Irishman, too?’ I asked, feeling myself beginning to waver; and I don’t mind confessing that I have never been able to withstand Michael Tobin from the first hour I met him. “‘I’ve only seen the man twice,’ said he; ‘but if he doesn’t carry a drop of the Celt under his waistcoat, Cork was not my birthplace.’ “‘Have you seen him in court?’