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.
CHAPTER IX.
A CLEVER GAME.
The savage baying of a dog broke the stillness of the winter night.
The hoarse barking was succeeded by others until the air became heavy with the uproar.
Then the distant clang of a door was heard.
The Bradys had come to a halt undecided what to do.
They had little fear that the dogs could reach them in that deep snow. But suddenly as they stood there in the moonlight a distant sharp crack was heard and the hiss of a bullet by Harry’s ear was a note of danger.
“Down, my lad!” cried Old King Brady, warningly.
They crouched behind the rails of a fence.
Bullets now began to sing about their heads.
It was evident that they had been seen in the moonlight.
Why the asylum people should receive possible visitors in this warlike if not murderous fashion was a problem which needed solution.
“It is might queer,” said Old King Brady. “The place cannot be very straight to be sure. Can it be that they suspect our identity?”
“Let us find out.”
“How?”
“I’ll show you!”
Harry disguised his voice, imitating the vernacular of a Yankee farmer.
“I say, what in darnation be yu afirin’ at us fer?” he shouted in a nasal twang. “Gosh hang it! We ain’t doin’ of anything to yu!”
The firing ceased.
There was a distant murmur of voices as if a consultation was being held.
Then a gruff voice came over the expanse of snow:
“Who are ye?”
“Wall, I’m Jim Simpson an’ this ere is my uncle Hank Small. We live up tew Concord an’ we’ve got tuckered out an’ thought mebbe we cud git yu to keep us until mornin’. We’re willin’ tu pay fer a nite’s lodgin’.”
“That don’t count,” came back the same gruff voice. “We ain’t got no use fer strangers around hyar, I kin tell ye. Better move on!”
“Wall, I must say ye’re mighty civil people tu try tu shoot us. I reckon I’ll send the constable down to see yu!”
A savage curse came back.
“Ye wouldn’t want to spend the night hyar if ye knew what sort of a house this is,” said the gruff speaker.
“Eh?” retorted Harry. “What kind of a house is it? Dang me, but it looks big enuff for a hotel.”
“Wall, it’s a hotel fast enuff. But it’s a hotel fer mad people!”
Harry whistled shrilly.
“Yu don’t say! Say, now, I’d like to see a mad pusson. Won’t ye let us take a look at one?”
Fierce oaths greeted this request.
“Go on yer way an’ leave this place as far behind ye as ye can, or it’ll be the wuss for ye.”
“Durn it! But we’re all tuckered out. Take us in an’ give us a cup of suthin’ warm, anyway. Then we’ll go along.”
“Ye’ll git somethin’ hotter nor ye want if ye fool around hyar too long. Now git out!”
“All right!” replied Harry, in a disappointed voice.
“I say!” came back the call.
“Wall?”
“Did ye cum up from Lexington?”
“Yas!”
“By ther highway?”
“We did.”
“Ah, did ye see anything of two men in a sleigh on the way?”
“Oh, they turned back fer ther snow was too deep!”
This reply seemed to have a peculiar effect upon the asylum people. A distant murmur was heard and then there came another hail.
Meanwhile, Harry and Old King Brady had been holding a hurried consultation.
On the way from Paine’s farm house they had effected a very clever disguise. They had borrowed some old coats, mufflers and hats of Farmer Paine.
With the use of false beards and wigs they had easily made themselves up for countrymen of the most verdant kind.
“What do you think?” whispered Harry. “Is our disguise good enough to risk a trip to the asylum if they finally decide to take us in?”
Old King Brady hesitated.
He knew that it would be like walking literally into a lion’s den.
Discovery was of course possible and could mean nothing but death.
But the daring old detective was ready to take any risk, however great, to gain a valuable end.
So he replied:
“We will take the chances.”
At this moment the hail came again.
“Hello, you rubes!”
“Hello!” replied Harry.
“Did ye give us a straight story about the two men in the sleigh?”
“Dead straight!”
“Do ye know who they were?”
“Naw! Somebody down in Lexington said they wuz New York people, but they didn’t look tu me tu be stylish enuff.”
At this a laugh came back.
“Well, Simpson, you an’ your friend can come over an’ we’ll take a look at ye. Mebbe we can put ye up fer the night.”
“Whoopla!” cried Harry. “We’re glad enuff of that an’ we’ll pay ye fur it.”
“Don’t want no pay, see?”
“All right!”
“Come along sharp now. It’s mighty cold.”
The detectives climbed over the fence and came along on their snowshoes. It required nerve to do this.
For aught they knew this might be only a subterfuge on the part of the villains to get them within range.
They could be easily shot dead. Indeed, their nerves were sorely tried.
But it was all honest enough on the villains’ part.
The detectives came suddenly to a high wicket gate in an iron fence.
Three huge mastiffs were held in leash by a bull-faced keeper. In the gateway stood three men.
Two of these the detectives recognized at once as Burke and Collins of the trio. This was a revelation.
It proved that Dr. Scraggs’ asylum was really a rendezvous for the thugs.
The third man was tall and lean with rounded shoulders and a hatchet face.
He was the asylum proprietor. No other than Doctor Scraggs himself.
The three miscreants and the rascally gatekeeper keenly scrutinized the two detectives.
It was a critical moment.
Collins held the lantern close up to their faces and studied them hard. Then he grinned.
“It’s all right,” he said. “They’re a couple of Rubes all right. Come in an’ we’ll keep ye till morning.”
“Isaac,” said Scraggs to the gatekeeper, “put the dogs back in the kennel. Show these two men to a room in the south wing. Give ’em a swig of whiskey.”
“Much obleeged to yu, mister,” said Harry, profusely. “I kin see yu are a gentleman. An’ yu kin bet Jim Simpson won’t fergit to make it up with yu.”
“That’s all right,” growled the asylum keeper. “Maybe you won’t like your room when you find out it’s next to a madman’s cell.”
“I kin stand it if yu can,” replied Harry.
“What’s that?”
“I say that anything is a durned sight better than freezing to death out in this tarnal snow.”
“Oh, I see! Well, come on, gentlemen, there’s business for us to do. Look here, you jays, you’re not lying to me about those two detec—I mean men in the sleigh? They really went back to Lexington?”
“Dead sure, boss! They couldn’t git through.”
“Thet is about right,” said Yan’s voice from an open door in the building. “I know I had the start an’ a half hour afterwards I couldn’t have got through myself.”
This ended the confab.
Isaac, the bull-faced keeper, led the detectives across the snow-covered yard to a wing of the asylum which was dark and looked cheerless and grim enough with its iron-barred windows.
In a few moments, however, the Bradys were in the kitchen of the asylum and the keeper had prepared some hot whisky for them.
The detectives never made a practice of drinking, but the exposure and the chill made the potation welcome.
Then they fell into easy conversation with Isaac.
The fellow had the appearance of a sharp, ferret-like rascal, but in the hands of the wily detectives he was like wax.
In a few moments they had wormed some interesting facts out of him.
“Betcher life Scraggy knows his biz,” said Isaac, in a tough way. “He’ll make anything pay. This ere asylum is a dead open cinch fer a fortune. See!”
“Gosh!” exclaimed Harry, rolling his eyes up. “Yu don’t say so? What kind of mad people is there here?”
“Oh, thar’s all kinds,” replied the keeper. “Them that’s fat an’ them that’s lean. Men an’ women, an’ anybody whose friends don’t want ’em around. Do ye see?”
“What’s that ye say?” interrogated Harry. “What’s that about people’s friends?”
“If ye don’t ax me too many questions I’ll tell ye no lies!” said Isaac with a shrewd wink.
“I say,” said Harry, in a dull way, “s’posin’ ye knew a man yu didn’t like! Couldn’t ye put him in this ’ere ’sylum an’ swear he wuz crazy?”
Isaac looked sharply at Harry.
“Have you any friends you want to git rid of?” he asked.
“Wall, I dunno! That depends.”
The keeper chuckled.
“You kin bet your dimes that this is a straight joint,” he said. “If anybody gits in hyar they stays hyar.”
“P’r’aps ye won’t let us out,” said Harry, suspiciously.
Isaac laughed loudly.
“P’r’aps we won’t, you jay!” he declared. “This is a hot place for jays, you can bet!”
“Do women ever go crazy?” asked Harry, credulously.
“Eh?” exclaimed the keeper in surprise. “Do women go crazy? Wall, I should say so!”
“Are there any here?”
“Any crazy women here? Well, there’s one on the very floor above this.”
The detectives had the deepest of interest. They questioned Isaac closely and skillfully, but they could learn no more.
They wondered who the lady inmate of the asylum was.
But they felt sure that before morning the chance would be given them to ascertain.
CHAPTER X.
THE ASYLUM PRISONER.
Isaac, the keeper, became quite voluble after a few drinks of whisky.
He talked freely and the detectives used every effort to pump him.
They learned that there was a strange female patient in the asylum.
That she had been brought there by the four crooks.
That all the gang were in the asylum and that Dr. Scraggs was a close ally.
All this Isaac, of course, did not tell them in as many words.
But from his conversation these facts were easily gathered.
Altogether the Bradys were well satisfied with the progress of affairs.
They had all their birds located and but for the embargo of the storm they might easily have summoned officers and completed the arrest of their birds.
Napoleon Blood was safely hidden in the asylum.
Under ordinary circumstances there would have been scant chance of his being found.
But the Bradys were in luck.
Their foes, from dogging their footsteps with murderous intent, were now in the position of being dogged themselves.
The race for life which they had intended giving the detectives had been arrested by circumstances.
Altogether the odds were just now decidedly in the detectives’ favor.
But the Bradys were not disposed to spend their whole evening in the kitchen of the asylum.
There was other work for them to do.
Somewhere within the walls of the place the four conspirators were holding a meeting.
What that meeting was to decide the detectives could only guess.
But it was exceedingly important that they should know. This was their purpose.
So they did not waste much further time in the kitchen with the keeper.
Harry began to yawn.
“By gum, I’m awful sleepy,” he averred. “I reckon I’d like tew turn in. Ain’t it about time, mister?”
“So ye want to go to bed, do ye?” said Isaac, with a leer.
“Yas.”
“All right!”
The fellow trimmed the wick of an oil lamp and said:
“Follow me!”
The detectives shuffled along after the keeper up several flights of stairs and finally they passed through a narrow corridor with iron-barred doors on either side.
A distant wailing cry gave the detectives a chilly feeling along the spine. There is no more dreadful sound than the cry of a maniac.
“Here ye are,” said the keeper, throwing open one of the iron doors. “Ye’ll be good an’ quiet here, fer Old Hickory, the only madman on this floor, is asleep. Thar’s a good bed fer ye!”
The detectives passed into the little chamber.
As they looked about the place they suddenly heard a little click and a chuckle behind them.
Turning suddenly they were aghast at the sight which rewarded them.
The barred door was between them and the grinning keeper.
He had shut it and barred it.
They were prisoners.
Harry was the first to recover.
“Oh, I say, b’gosh! I don’t like thet kind of foolin’,” he said, angrily. “Open thet door, mister!”
“Will I?” leered the keeper. “Jest hold yer hat on till I do!”
“Are ye foolin’?”
“Does it look like it?”
“Gosh hang ye, let us out!”
“What for?”
“Come, we don’t like it!”
“Don’t ye? Wall, I’m sorry, but it’s orders, ye know!”
For a moment a horrible fear struck the Bradys.
Was it true?
Had they walked unwittingly into a trap?
Were the Tough Trio after all to be able to carry out their fearful threat of vengeance?
For a moment the thought made both detectives shiver.
They exchanged glances. Then Harry placed his hands on the iron bars of the door.
“Gol durn it, friend, this ain’t no joke!” he said, entreatingly. “Let us out an’ we’ll say no more!”
Isaac laughed demoniacally.
“Let ye out? Wall, what fer? When we git two as good patients as you we allus holds ’em. You’ll be worth something to your friends, likely.”
“Oh, ye think ye’ll get a ransom fer us, do ye?” asked Harry.
“Well, we oughter.”
“You won’t!”
“We’ll see!”
“I tell ye we’ve got no money nor friends. Let us out!”
“Ye live in Concord?”
“Yas.”
“What do ye do?”
“Work out fer a livin’.”
“I believe ye’re durned liars. This is the safest place fer ye to-night. To-morrow the boss kin decide what to do with ye. I hope as how ye’ll have pleasant dreams!”
And with this the fellow was gone. The detectives were aghast.
They saw it was no joke.
It was a clever game to keep them close prisoners for the night. But for what purpose?
Did the crooks suspect them?
Old King Brady was loth to believe this. He reckoned that it was only intended to keep them from wandering about the asylum, as curious countrymen might be tempted to do.
But even at this the situation was extremely unsatisfactory to the detectives.
Above all things they wanted their freedom.
Harry inspected the iron bars of the door closely.
Suddenly with a thrill he discovered that one of them was loose.
He believed that it could be sprung from its socket.
He whispered this fact to Old King Brady and said:
“Never mind. We will get out all right, yet.”
“Do you think so?”
“I do!”
“We had better not try it yet.”
“Oh, certainly not.”
The detectives listened long and intently. They heard a door creak at intervals at the far end of the corridor.
It was possible that the wily keeper was on watch there to see what move to escape the two men might make.
But the detectives made loud conversation.
“I don’t keer a durn!” Harry finally yawned. “I’m goin’ to have some sleep, anyway.”
“Same hyar! I’m fagged.”
They cast themselves heavily upon the iron cot beds. Then in a few moments both were snoring.
But they were not sleeping.
Each, through half-shut eyes, watched the cell door.
Just what they expected occurred.
Suddenly at the iron bars there appeared a leering face.
It was the keeper Isaac.
He crouched there a moment and then glided away.
A distant door creaked and then all was silence.
Old King Brady sat up on the edge of his bunk.
“It’s all right, Harry?” he said. “The coast is clear.”
“We are safe?”
“Yes.”
“The fellow was easy to fool. He is off his guard now.”
“Sure!”
Harry now tried the iron bar.
It was an easy matter to spring it from the socket. The aperture thus made was small.
But Harry squeezed far enough through it to reach the bar and lift it. The door swung back.
Freedom was theirs.
But there was lively work before them. They glided away down the dark corridor.
Noiselessly they passed from one corridor to another, past the doors of cells where madmen prattled, until suddenly Old King Brady gave a gasp.
A light shone through the grated door of one cell.
It was more cheerfully furnished than the others. But the single occupant enchained the detectives.
A young girl, beautiful, though pale as marble.
Her face was clear and sweet. Her manner mild and gentle. Surely she was no maniac.
The Bradys paused and gazed upon the fair occupant of this cell as if spellbound.
She did not at the moment observe them.
When she did, finally, she gave a great start and half arose. A frightened light was in her eyes.
“I pray you be not alarmed, young lady,” said Old King Brady, in an undertone. “We are friends!”
“Who—who are you?” she asked. “Have you come to take me away?”
“Perhaps so,” said Old King Brady, closely searching for any possible evidence of insanity.
But there was none.
He was satisfied of this.
No doubt she was confined here against her will. Perhaps she was the victim of some cowardly plot.
“Oh, I am thankful!” she said, joyfully. “For my prayer is answered. I shall die if I remain longer in this awful place!”
Old King Brady drew close to the bars of the cell door.
“Come a little nearer, young lady,” he said. “We are in danger of being overheard.”
She drew nearer.
Her large eyes were fixed upon the detectives questioningly. But it was plain that her confidence was wan.
“Oh, I am sure you are friends,” she said, earnestly, “and you will take me from this dreadful place.”
“Tell me your story,” said Old King Brady. “Who brought you here? Why are you here?”
“Oh, I do not know,” she said with a shudder. “They tell me that I am insane like the others in this place. But I am not. Truly I am not!”
“Where did you come from?”
“My home is in Westchester near New York City.”
Old King Brady gave a start.
His eyes flashed.
“Will you tell me your name?”
“Certainly!” replied the fair prisoner. “My name is Evelyn Grimm!”
CHAPTER XI.
THE RESCUE.
“Evelyn Grimm!”
Old King Brady repeated the name with a horrified gasp. Both detectives rubbed their eyes.
“Did I hear you aright?” asked the old detective. “Did you say the name was Grimm?”
“Yes, sir.”
The young girl looked at him wonderingly.
“You lived in Westchester?”
“That is my home.”
“Do you know Napoleon Blood?”
The young girl shuddered.
“He is my uncle,” she said. “He it was who declared I was insane and had me brought here!”
Old King Brady began to see his way through the fog.
The vile plot in all its intricacies was now exposed to him.
“That was the way of it,” he said. “Then you did not keep an appointment in Union Square on a certain evening?”
“Never!”
“Nor you were not murdered and burned up in a Fifteenth street house?”
The young girl looked astonished.
“I do not understand you,” she said.
“I do not wonder,” said the old detective. “I will explain. That is the story of your mysterious disappearance as given to the world by your uncle.”
“Well, it is false!”
“Even traces of your clothing were found and other clews to show that you were burned in that dwelling.”
“That is strange.”
“Yes, it is part of the plot.”
“Plot?”
“Yes, young lady, you are the victim of a villainous plot.”
“I think you are right,” said Evelyn, with conviction. “And I believe my uncle is at the bottom of it. I know he always hated me and he wanted my heritage.”
“Now you have it right,” said Old King Brady. “He tried to hang young Allerton Banks for the supposed crime, but an alibi was proved.”
A cry of horror and indignation escaped the young girl.
“The scoundrel!” she said, intensely. “He always hated Allerton. Oh, sir, who are you? Surely you do not keep this dreadful place?”
“Sh!” said Old King Brady, in a whisper. “We must be careful. No, my dear young lady, we do not. We are New York detectives, of the Secret Service. We are in quest of the villains who were supposed to be your murderers!”
Evelyn Grimm was plainly surprised and delighted.
“Oh, heaven be praised!” she said, ardently. “You will save me. You will take me back to New York. In another year my heritage will be mine. I shall contest my uncle’s right to put me in an insane asylum.”
“And well you may. It is as you say, only a scheme to beat you out of your inheritance.”
“Uncle Napoleon will pay for it.”
“We promise you he will. But now let us consider what is to be done. Very naturally you are anxious to escape.”
“Yes.”
“But there are many things to consider. In the first place there is a terrible risk!”
“Indeed!”
“You see the gang of villains with whom your uncle is in league are here to-night. We want to entrap them.”
“Then I must wait?”
“Perhaps so. Or—it might be as well for us to liberate you now. But you must be very careful and not betray us.”
“Oh, I will promise.”
“Very well.”
The detectives now lifted the iron bar and opened the cell door.
It creaked a bit, but after listening carefully the detectives were convinced that they were not betrayed.
In another moment Evelyn Grimm, the supposed victim of the Fifteenth street crime, walked out safe and well.
The Bradys felt that they had made a great step toward the winning of this remarkable case.
While they knew that the crime charged against the trio was thus disproved, yet there was sufficient evidence against the gang to hold them for the law.
So they did not deem the case by any means ended, with the liberation of Evelyn Grimm.
Along the corridor to the end of the wing they now all crept.
It had been decided by the Bradys what was to be done.
At the end of the wing there was an iron fire-escape.
It would be easy to descend by this to the ground.
Luckily Evelyn knew the use of snowshoes. Harry was to accompany her to the Paine farm house.
Then he was to organize a band of the farmers, armed, and return. The asylum would be surrounded.
It seemed that this must be a certain way of capturing the gang.
“Queer, isn’t it?” said Harry. “The charred remains of a body were found in the ruins of that Fifteenth street fire.”
“Very good.”
“Well, now we find Evelyn Grimm alive.”
“Yes.”
“But I cannot see that that disproves the crime of murder. A murder must have been enacted.”
“Beyond a doubt.”
“But who was the victim?”
“That remains to be seen. It certainly was not Evelyn Grimm.”
“No.”
“I can see the gist of the whole diabolical plot,” said Harry. “Old Blood thought he could bury his niece forever in this asylum. The evidences of her presence in the burning dwelling would blind everybody and make them believe that she was burned to death.”
“That is true.”
“But she is very much alive.”
“Well, I should rather think so. Ah, here we are!”
They had now reached the window opening out upon the fire-escape.
Harry softly raised the sash.
Then he descended and assisted the young girl down. The snowshoes were found in the kitchen which luckily was deserted and Harry quickly appeared with them.
They were put on and then Harry and his fair charge walked away across the white fields.
Old King Brady closed the window down and went back along the corridor.
He could not help wondering at the unexpected outcome of the case.
“Indeed, people will be surprised beyond measure when they learn that Evelyn Grimm is alive!” he mused. “It will prove a great sensation.”
But the old detective had no idea of remaining idle while Harry was absent.
There was work before him.
Somewhere in the asylum he knew that a council of villainy was being held.
He was desirous of becoming a listener to the same. He proceeded, however, with extreme caution.
He made his way carefully to the head of a flight of stairs.
Down these he crept to a floor below.
Still further below he now heard the murmur of voices. The light in the corridor was dim.
But far below he saw a bright gleam which seemed to come from the reception room of the asylum.
The place was unusually quiet.
Some of the boisterous patients had been drugged to keep them quiet. It was a villainous practice, but yet of common occurrence.
Old King Brady had half expected to run across Isaac or some one of the other keepers in the corridors.
But good fortune favored him.
He did not come across any of them. Down the stairs he glided.
The door of the reception room was half open.
The old detective peered in.
The scene which met his gaze at once interested him.
There were the five precious villains. At a table sat the Tough Trio.
Beside them were Doctor Scraggs and Napoleon Blood.
On the table were a number of papers.
“You know, curse ye, that ye agreed to keep the girl until she dies,” said Blood, in an angry tone. “And now you want to back out.”
“I never had any luck with women patients,” said Scraggs, persistently, “and I know what I’m talking about. You must pay me good money to keep her here.”
“Why more for her than any other patient?” growled Blood.
“She gives us more trouble.”
“Bah! You’re over nice!”