Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. William Kneebone was a woollen-draper of "credit and renown," whose place of business was held at the sign of the Angel (for, in those days, every shop had its sign), opposite Saint Clement's church in the Strand. I told him I would bring him to the gallows, and I was as good as my word. Impassive by nature and training, he was conscious to-night of a strange sense of excitement, of exhilaration tempered by a dull background of disappointment. ‘It is nothing. "Not a syllable!" answered the carpenter, angrily. .
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