" "May I trust you?" cried Thames, eagerly. ‘The credentials, milor’,’ he ventured. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. 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. " "Death and the devil! what a cursed interruption!" cried Jack, impatiently. .
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