Upstairs, in the little dressing-room, the panel was opened by means of tugging a small candlesconce in the wall. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. The first of these, the Press Room, a dark close chamber, near Waterman's Hall, obtained its name from an immense wooden machine kept in it, with which such prisoners as refused to plead to their indictments were pressed to death—a species of inquisitorial torture not discontinued until so lately as the early part of the reign of George the Third, when it was abolished by an express statute. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves.
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