It was a sort of cooking-room, with an immense fire-place flanked by a couple of cauldrons, and was called Jack Ketch's Kitchen, because the quarters of persons executed for treason were there boiled by the hangman in oil, pitch, and tar, before they were affixed on the city gates, or on London Bridge. A slender young man, wearing glasses, appeared from the shadow of the nearest van. Better come another morning. She slipped down the perfunctory flight of stairs, short because of the home’s split-level style. She backed away from him. “It seems—It’s interesting. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience.
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