He opened a flask of whisky and passed it round. "There was madness in the family," he said, after a nip. "Whose?" I asked. "Brassington's?" "No," said the publican, in a tone that implied contempt at my ignorance, in spite of its innocence, "the girl's. Her mother had been in a 'sylum, and so had her grandmother. It was it was heridited. My old man was a warder in a 'sylum.