At the corner of Liquorpond Street stood the old Hampstead coach-office; and, on the night in question, a knot of hostlers, waggoners, drivers, and stable-boys was collected in the yard. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. But you—you have a good face. In fact, Mr. "Stop thief!" roared Jonathan, who perceived the fugitive hurrying along a street towards Hatton Garden. The manager had sketched the girl's character, or rather had interpreted it, from the incidents which had happened since dinner.
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