“It's all true I 'm telling, for all that,” replied the other; “and although it happened above five-and-twenty years since, I'm not much changed, they tell me, in look or appearance.” He paused at these words, as if to give Daly time to recognize him; but the effort seemed in vain, as, after along and patient scrutiny, Daly said, “No, I cannot remember you.” “Let me see, then,” said the man, “if I can't refresh your memory. Were you in Dublin in the winter of '75?” “Yes; I had a house in Stephen's Green--” “And used to drive four black thoroughbreds without winkers?” “It's clear that _you_ know me, at least,” said Daly; “go on.” “Well, sir, do you remember, it was about a week before Christmas, that Captain Burke Fitzsimon was robbed of a pair of pistols in the guard-room of the Upper Castle Yard, in noonday, ay, and tied with his own sash to the guard-bed?” “By Jove! I do. He was regularly laughed out of the regiment.” “Faix, and many that laughed at him mightn't have behaved a deal better than he did,” replied the other, with a dogged sternness in his manner. He became silent after these words, and appeared deeply sunk in meditation, when suddenly he drew two splendidly chased pistols from his bosom, and held them out to Daly as he said, “There they are, and as good as they are handsome, true at thirty paces, and never fail.” Daly gazed alternately from the pistols to their owner, but never uttered a word. “That same day,” resumed the man, “you were walking down the quay near the end of Watling Street, when there was a cry of 'Stop thief!--stop him!--a hundred guineas to the man that takes him!' and shortly after a man crossed the quay, pursued closely by several people, one of them, and the foremost, being Tom Lambert, the constable, the strongest man, they said, of his day, in Ireland. The fellow that ran could beat them all, and was doing it too, when, just as he had gained Bloody Bridge, he saw a child on the pathway all covered with blood, and a bulldog standing over him, worrying him--” “I have it all,” said Daly, interrupting him; “'tis as fresh before me as if it happened yesterday. The robber stopped to save the child, and, seizing the bulldog by the throat, hurled him over the wall into the Liffey. Lambert, as you call him, had by this time come close up, and was within two yards of the man, when I, feeling compassion for a fellow that could be generous at such a moment, laid my hand on the constable's arm to stop him; he struck me; but if he did, he had his reward, for I threw him over the hip on the crown of his head, and he had a brain fever after it that almost brought him to death's door. And where were you all this time, and what were you doing?” “I was down Barrack Street, across the park, and near Knockmaroon Gate, before they could find a door to stretch Tom Lambert on.” “You!” said Daly, staring at him; “why, it was Freney, they told me, performed that exploit for a wager.”