"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——"