A few doors to the left was O'Brien's shop. The old man crept into sight, staggering under the weight of a shutter. Good gracious! Why had he not thought of this ally sooner? Some precious minutes were wasted already. "Arrah, Phil, phwat in the worruld----" "Wait just the least bit, Mr. O'Brien. I have some portmanteaux that I want to store for the night. Do let me put them at the back of your shop. My place is not very safe, you know." "Sure, boy, that's a shmall thing to ax. Bring 'em, an' welcome." With the speed of a deer Philip dived into the mews. He carried the two lesser bags without extraordinary difficulty, and deposited them behind O'Brien's counter. The third was almost too much for him, as the weight was all in one hand. But he got it there, breathless with the exertion. He had to open the fourth and tear out the stuffing of paper. When filled with the packages taken from the fifth it was beyond his power to lift it. So he dragged it bodily along the mews and into the shop. A passer-by offered to help him. "No, thanks," he managed to say, though the effort to speak calmly took away his remaining breath. "I am only taking it to the shop there." The man glanced at the shop--it was a marine store dealer's--a place where lead and iron and brass found ready sale. He passed on. "Be the forchun uv war, Phil, where did ye get the iligant leather thrunks, an' phwat's in them?" inquired the astonished pensioner. The boy bravely called a smile to his aid. "I have a big story to tell you one of these days, Mr. O'Brien, but I have no time to-night. These things will not be in your way until the morning?" "The divil a bit. If things go on as they are, there'll soon be room enough in the poor ould shop. To think, afther all these years, that a murtherin' thief in the War Office----" Philip was safe. He rapidly helped his friend to put up the shutters, and rushed back to No. 3. Even yet he was not quite prepared for eventualities. He ran upstairs and gathered a few articles belonging to his mother, articles he never endeavored to sell even when pinched by hunger. The last dress she wore, her boots, a hat, an album with photographs, some toilet accessories from the tiny dressing table, the coverlet of the bed on which she died--these and kindred mementoes made a very credible bulk in the denuded portmanteau. He gave one glance at the hole in the back yard as he went to the coal house for a fresh supply of coal. That must remain. It probably would not be seen. In any case it remained inexplicable. He was stirring the fire when a tap sounded on the door and the policeman entered, followed by an inspector. CHAPTER X. _A Step Higher._ "This is the boy, sir," said the policeman. "Oh, is that him?" observed the inspector, sticking his thumbs into his belt and gazing at Philip with professional severity.