Two shots were fired, and presently the clashing of swords was heard below. Sheppard, anxiously. “John?” He turned around in the recliner. And then, for the first time, Wood noticed a small stream of blood coursing slowly down her cheek. 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.
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