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. Cheveney was looking after her, I think, then. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. Montague Hill was taken for the millionaire once or twice, and I suppose it flattered his vanity. And yet, at the end of this prayer a subconscious thought broke through to consciousness. At the thought of the major, her tears redoubled and she was obliged to rip off a piece from the remnants of her already maltreated underpetticoats with which to blow her nose and soak the damp from her cheeks. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She followed the official back into his room.
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