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?”