"Stop thief!" roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. When he comes he will do that raid of the pantechnicons the justice it deserves; he will picture the orderly evening scene about the Imperial Legislature in convincing detail, the coming and going of cabs and motor-cabs and broughams through the chill, damp evening into New Palace Yard, the reinforced but untroubled and unsuspecting police about the entries of those great buildings whose square and panelled Victorian Gothic streams up from the glare of the lamps into the murkiness of the night; Big Ben shining overhead, an unassailable beacon, and the incidental traffic of Westminster, cabs, carts, and glowing omnibuses going to and from the bridge. He liked to draw her in, and she did her best to talk. "It is the fiend!" she exclaimed, recoiling. \"Is there something desperately wrong with your house?\" \"There is nothing wrong with our house.
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