The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. 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. Either that or some other person also obtained admission here and shot him, and that person is either still upon the premises or escaped without your notice. There followed a silence which endured several minutes; or, rather a tableau. You see, my riddle is solved.
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