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.