AT THE ASYLUM.
The horse given the Bradys by the stable keeper was certainly a good
one.
He dashed over the snow-covered road like the wind.
Sleighs were met and passed.
But yet nothing was seen of the sleigh which contained Martin Van. To be
sure he had a long start.
But still the Bradys kept on.
Arlington highway was reached and then they turned up the historic
thoroughfare, the route of Paul Revere on his memorable ride, and
entered Lexington.
On the left was a historic tavern.
The minute men of olden times who had met here to resist the advance of
the British column of invasion, had once drank their flip and toddy in
this ancient house.
As the detectives dashed along the snow-bound thoroughfare, Old King
Brady gave a start.
“Hello!” he exclaimed. “Luck is with us!”
In the tavern yard was a sleigh. It was the veritable cutter hired by
Van in Boston.
“Now we have him!” chuckled Old King Brady, as he turned his horse into
the yard.
The detectives threw the reins to a hostler.
Then they dashed into the tavern.
At a counter stood a man of plain, stern features. He was evidently the
proprietor and stared at the invaders.
Old King Brady leaned over the counter and said:
“Where is the man who just came up in that cutter out there?”
The proprietor looked blank.
“He did not stop here,” he said.
The detectives were staggered.
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know which way he went?”
“Yes, he took the Concord road.”
“Thank you!”
The Bradys rushed out and leaped into their wagon. They drove on at full
speed for Concord.
They were soon outside the little town of Lexington.
The road to Concord is a hilly and difficult highway, particularly in
winter.
Moreover, a blinding snow storm had commenced to block the roads. After
going a few miles the detectives found that their horse was giving out.
“On my word, Harry,” said Old King Brady, “I am afraid we are bound to
get stuck.”
“There is one consolation.”
“What?”
“If we are, Van is also.”
Night was at hand and darkness began to settle down.
The Bradys realized that it was necessary to get under cover somewhere.
They were averse to going back to Lexington.
Suddenly, after floundering a while in the snow, a dim light was seen in
the distance.
“There is a habitation of some kind,” said Old King Brady. “I think we
had better strike for it.”
“Very good,” declared Harry. “I will go ahead on foot.”
Slowly the Bradys staggered on through the snow.
After a while they passed through a gateway and drew up in the yard of a
time-stained and weather-beaten old mansion of revolutionary style.
Lights shone in the windows of the old house.
Old King Brady shouted and two farm boys came out with lanterns.
“Reckon hyars some more storm-bound people,” said one of the boys. “Say,
mister, what kin we do fer ye?”
“It looks as if we had got to trespass on you for the night,” said Old
King Brady.
“Wall, ye’re welcome! Put yer hoss right in the barn.”
This was done.
The big barn doors were with difficulty swung back. Then as the
detectives entered they were given a thrilling start.
Right in the center of the barn floor was the cutter which Van had
driven from Boston.
The horse was in a nearby stall.
“By jove!” whispered Harry. “We’ve come up with the sharp rogue at last.
He won’t slip us this time.”
“Indeed he won’t!” declared Old King Brady. “I say, my man?”
“Well, sir?”
“Where is the man who came in with this team?”
Both boys stared.
“Eh?” stammered one. “That team? Why, nobody came in with it.”
“What?”
“That’s so, sir.”
“Do you mean to say nobody drove in here with that team?”
“Jest so, sir! It came in by itself an’ nobody in the sleigh. I don’t
know nuthin’ more about it.”
“And you don’t know where the driver of it is?”
“No, sir.”
The detectives were dumfounded.
It was a most astounding turn in affairs. For a few moments they were
overcome.
What could it mean?
It was easy to assume that Van had deserted the team.
But where and why? Where was he now?
It seemed an altogether foolish thing for him to desert the horse and
sleigh to go afoot such a wild night.
No man could hope to live long in such a storm.
Yet it seemed that he had done this very thing.
The closest inquiries by the detectives revealed nothing more.
The farmer’s boys could vouchsafe no further information.
The detectives were obliged to be satisfied with it.
Wherever Van was, nothing could be done to secure him that night. He
might be freezing somewhere in the snow.
However this might be, the Bradys knew that they could only make
themselves comfortable for the night and wait for the morrow.
So they went into the farm house.
A cheery fire blazed on the hearth.
John Paine, the farmer, and his wife welcomed the detectives.
They were given seats by the fire and the housewife hustled about to get
them something to eat.
The Bradys were soon toasting their frigid feet by the fire and
listening to John Paine’s homely talk.
“I reckoned it ud be a pow’ful hard winter,” he said. “Everything
p’inted that way.”
“How far are you from the next house?” asked Old King Brady.
“Summut of a mile, I reckon.”
“What is it, a farm house like this?”
John Paine screwed up his mouth.
“I reckon ye’re strangers about yere,” he said.
“We are.”
“Bekase if ye warn’t ye’d never ax that question. Why, the next _house_
ain’t a _house_ at all. It’s a mad-house!”
“A mad-house?”
“Yes, some people call it a ’sylum.”
“Oh, yes; a private asylum!”
“I reckon so. It’s private enuff. Old Doctor Scraggs who keeps it has
about four of ther wust dogs in this kentry. Nobody dares to go about
there arter dark.”
The detectives were doing some deep thinking.
Private asylums were not uncommon in any part of the country.
They wondered if there could be any connection between Van’s
disappearance and the asylum.
For a long while they pondered over it.
Then Old King Brady asked:
“I say, my friend! Have you any snowshoes?”
“Sartin!” replied Paine. “But ye ain’t goin’ out to-night?”
“I have a desire to visit that asylum,” said the detective.
“Wait till ter-morrer. We’ll break the road out airly.”
“Oh, I don’t mind the storm.”
At this moment one of the farm boys came in with a stamp of his feet.
“I say!” he cried. “It’s all breaking away an’ the moon is coming out.”
“Sho!” cried the farmer. “You don’t say so?”
“That settles it!” cried Old King Brady. “We’ll take a trip on
snowshoes, anyway!”
The farmer made no further demur. For himself he couldn’t see the sense
of it.
“But city folks does hev queer ways,” he remarked to his wife.
Two pairs of snowshoes were brought out.
The Bradys first indulged in a hearty meal as prepared by the good
housewife.
Then they sallied forth.
Warmly wrapped they did not feel the chill air. The moon had appeared
high in the heavens and the air was sublime.
Over the drifted fields the detectives made their way.
“It’s easy enough to understand it all now,” said Old King Brady. “You
see Van went as far as he could with his team. Then he turned it into
this man’s yard and went ahead on foot.”
“He meant to reach the asylum. It was certainly his objective point.”
“Yes.”
“But what business can he possibly have at the asylum of Doctor
Scraggs?”
“That is for us to find out.”
“Perhaps——”
Old King Brady paused. Both detectives had experienced the same thought.
Was there any connection between the insane asylum of Doctor Scraggs and
the Fifteenth street mystery?
Had the Tough Trio any relationship with this private home for the
insane?
The Bradys knew well that many of these private asylums are but prisons
for innocent victims of evil plots.
On the charge of insanity a perfectly sane man may be kept for years,
even to the hour of his death, in awful, torturous confinement.
It seemed certain that Van had not alone come on to Boston to shadow the
detectives or even to decoy them.
It was really to pay a visit to Doctor Scraggs’ asylum.
But what was his business there?
What sort of a place was it?
The Bradys felt that they were upon a new lead.
As they glided along on their snowshoes, they were resolved to solve the
mystery that night if possible.
Nearer now they drew to the grounds of the asylum.
Now a barrier arose which seemed likely to thwart them.