He not only failed in making any impression, but seemed to increase the difficulties, for after an hour's toil he had broken the nail and slightly bent the iron bar. Won’t you let me—can’t I be of any assistance?” He was obviously in earnest. 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. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. I have suspected him of possessing a skeleton key to my apartments.
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