Emerging from the haven of the mews, he found the untidy life of the Mile End Road eddying in restless confusion through a gale. The gaunt, high walls surrounding his secluded dwelling had sheltered him from the blustering, March wind that was now drying the streets and creating much ill-temper in the hearts of carters, stall owners and girls with large hats and full skirts. In a word, everything that could be flapped or shaken, or rudely swept anywhere out of its rightful place, was dealt with accordingly. In one instance a heavy tarpaulin was lifted clean off a wagon and neatly lodged over the heads of the driver and horses of a passing omnibus. They were not extricated from its close embrace without some difficulty and a great quantity of severe yet cogent remarks by the wagoner and the driver, assisted by the 'bus conductor and various passengers. Philip laughed heartily, for the first time since his mother's death. He waited until the driver and the wagoner had exchanged their farewell compliments. Then he made off briskly toward an establishment where three halfpence would purchase a cup of coffee and a bun. In ten minutes he felt much refreshed, and his busy mind reverted to the mysterious package he carried. Thinking it best to seek the counsel of an older head, he went to O'Brien's shop. The old man was taking down the shutters, and found the task none too easy. Without a word, Philip helped him, and soon the pensioner was wiping his spectacles in the shelter of the shop. "I dunno what the weather is comin' to at all at all," he grumbled. "Last night was like the takin' uv the Redan, an' this mornin' reminds me uv crossin' the Bay o' Biscay." "It certainly was a fearful thunderstorm," said Philip. "Faix, boy, that's a thrue word. It was just like ould times in the hills in Injia, where the divil himself holds coort some nights. But what's the matter? Didn't you get that job?" Philip laughed again. "I am not sure yet," he replied. "I really came in to ask you what this is." With his hand in his pocket, he had untwisted the paper and taken out the white pebbles, which he now handed to O'Brien. The old man took it, smelt it and adjusted his glasses for a critical examination. "It ain't alum," he announced. "No. I think not." "An' it ain't glass." "Probably not." "Where did yer get it?" "I found it lying on the pavement." O'Brien scratched his head. "'Tis a quare-looking objec', anyhow. What good is it?" "I cannot tell you. I thought that possibly it might have some value." "What! A scrap of white shtone like that. Arrah, what's come over ye?" "There is no harm in asking, is there? Some one should be able to tell me what it is made of." Philip, from his small store of physical geography, knew that meteors were articles of sufficient rarity to attract attention. And he was tenacious withal. "I suppose that a jeweler would be the best man to judge. He must understand about stones," he went on.