Her nerves were shattered, her senses dazed by this unexpected shock. She took the piece of paper and unfolded it in the safety of her lap. 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. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience. Here and there, patches of flesh adhered to the bones, and the dank dripping hair hanging about what had once been the face, gave it a ghastly appearance. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it. . As soon as the service was over, Thames contrived to approach him, and whispered, "Be cautious,—the funeral will take place after evening service.
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