“No,” said Sleuth, “I’m a doubting William; Billy is my first name. It’s scarcely necessary for me to bring my penetrating and deductive faculties to bear upon that yarn in order to point out the ragged holes with which it is riddled. Who recorded this wonderful legend? Who knew all about the very thoughts of the beautiful Indian princess as she lay a captive in the lodge of the great war chief, her father? I haven’t anywhere read that the North American Indians could record things by any other method than that of picture writing of the crudest sort. And the old guy of a brave who recorded _thoughts_ in that manner would be obliged to hump himself some. I wonder who faked up that yarn?” “You seem inclined to take everything too literally,” said Granger, seeking to repress his resentment over Sleuth’s attitude. “Perhaps it has been touched up a bit and filled out in complete narrative form, but doubtless, in the main, the story is true.” But Billy shrugged his shoulders and elevated his eyebrows significantly. “It makes little difference whether _you_ believe the story or not,” said the annoyed visitor. “A great many people do believe it.” “There are always suckers ready to swallow anything,” retorted Sleuth. “Why, I suppose there are some people who actually believe this lake, or that island out yonder, in particular, to be haunted.” A queer look passed over Granger’s face, and for a few moments he scrutinized Piper in a perplexed manner. At first he had imagined that of the young campers this lad would be the most ready and eager to accept such fanciful tales as truthful, or as containing a certain amount of truth, at least. It now seemed that this sentimental, imaginative boy was the most skeptical fellow among them. “You may believe as much as you like,” he finally said; “or as little; it makes no difference to me. The story of Lovers’ Leap, as a story, sounds very well.” “And you tell it fluently,” murmured Piper. Disdaining this remark, Granger went on. “As for the other matter, it is scarcely strange that some superstitious people should fancy the lake haunted. I believe it got its name in the first place through the tale that regularly, once a year, upon the anniversary of the tragedy, the spirits of the Indian lovers appear upon the cliff, from which they leaped, clasped in each other’s arms.” Sleuth smothered a snicker, upon which, unable longer to keep still, Crane, who had been deeply absorbed in the legend as related, turned upon him savagely, snapping: “What’s the matter with yeou, anyhaow? Can’t yeou be half perlite if yeou try? Yeou don’t haf to listen; yeou can go off somewhere all by your lonesome.” The visitor flashed Sile a glance of thanks. “There’s another reason,” he stated, “why the lake is supposed to be haunted. Almost everyone around here has heard the story of Old Lonely, the hermit whose deserted hut still stands on Spirit Island.” “Yep,” nodded Crane eagerly, “I know abaout that yarn.”