she knew how to put up the
shutters, and would do it. She was quite willing, and set about it at
once, while Mr Blurt nodded good-night, and went away.

With very uncomfortable feelings George Aspel stood in the shop, his
tall figure drawn up, his arms crossed on his broad breast, and his
finely formed head bent slightly down as he sternly watched the
operation.

Mrs Murridge was a resolute woman. She put up most of the shutters
promptly in spite of the high wind, but just as she was fixing the last
of them a blast caught it and almost swept it from her grasp. For two
seconds there was a tough struggle between Boreas and the old woman.
Gallantry forbade further inaction. Aspel rushed out just in time to
catch Mrs Murridge and the shutter in his strong arms as they were
about to be swept into the kennel. He could do no more, however, than
hold them there, the wind being too much even for him. While in this
extremity he received timely aid from some one, whom the indistinct
light revealed as a broad-shouldered little fellow in a grey uniform.
With his assistance the shutter was affixed and secured.

"Thank you, friend, whoever you are," said Aspel heartily, as he turned
and followed the panting Mrs Murridge.

But the "friend," instead of replying, seized Aspel by the arm and
walked with him into the shop.

"George Aspel!" he said.

George looked down and beheld the all but awe-stricken visage of Philip
Maylands.

Without uttering a word the former sat down on the counter, and burst
into a fit of half-savage laughter.

"Ah, then, you may laugh till you grow fat," said Phil, "but it's more
than that you must do if I'm to join you in the laugh."

"What more can I do, Phil?" asked Aspel, wiping his eyes.

"Sure, ye can explain," said Phil.

"Well, sit down on the counter, and I'll explain," returned Aspel,
shutting and locking the door. Then, mounting the stool, he entered
into a minute explanation--not only in reference to his present position
and circumstances but regarding his recent misfortunes.

Phil's admiration and love for his friend were intense, but that did not
altogether blind him to his faults. He listened attentively,
sympathetically but gravely, and said little. He felt, somehow, that
London was a dangerous place compared with the west of Ireland,--that
his friend was in danger of something vague and undefined,--that he
himself was in danger of--he knew not what. While the two were
con