“You are their friend, then?” “I am,” Courtlaw answered. 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. He then made a sort of running noose, passed it over her body, and taking firmly hold of the bars, prepared to guide her descent. "Two hundred pounds, if he's lodged in Newgate before to-morrow morning," continued Wild.
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