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. But after all, what did it matter whether she had secrets or not? To him she was not a woman but a symbol; and one did not investigate the antecedents of symbols. She was the High Priestess. She looked at him mournfully. "But clear the room of this rabble, if you have sufficient authority over them. ‘You wouldn’t know one end of a pistol from the other. A little exclamation of surprise escaped Ennison. “It is so difficult,” she murmured, “so impossible to explain. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature.
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