The afternoon was passing. In spite of himself, Piper’s eyelids drooped. Suddenly they snapped wide open, and there before him in the doorway, leaning indolently against the casing and smoking a corncob pipe, was Mr. Granger, minus coat, vest and hat, and wearing an old pair of slippers upon his feet. For nearly ten minutes he lounged there, gazing dreamily toward the landing, and then he turned back into the cabin and disappeared. “Piffle!” whispered Sleuth. “He’s not going out. Another day wasted, but I’ll foil him yet.” He was about to retreat when a faint, far-away sound caused him to prick up his ears and remain concealed in the bushes. Someone was whistling in the distant woods, and gradually the sound drew nearer. It was a rollicking jumble of popular tunes, and after a time the whistler, a boy about Sleuth’s age—possibly a little younger—came out by a path that led away from the cabin. Straight to the door the boy advanced, and there he was met by Granger, who, like Piper, had heard the whistling. “Here’s something for you, Mr. Granger,” said the strange boy as he drew a sealed envelope from his pocket and handed it over to the man. “Thanks, Jack,” said Granger. “How is everything?” “First-rate,” was the cheerful reply. “I’ve got to hustle back. So long.” He was off as quickly as he had come, again making the woods ring with his whistling. With the sealed envelope in his hand, Granger retired into the cabin. “Piffle!” said Sleuth once more. “A returned manuscript, I suppose. I guess this story writing is poor business, all right. No use for me to watch any more today; I’m baffled again.” Withdrawing from the bushes, he crept away until he could rise to his feet and retreat fully hidden in the thickets. He seemed to be not a little disappointed and downcast, and while returning to the boat he failed to maintain the caution that had marked his movements at an earlier hour. Putting the gun back into the boat, he pushed off and was soon out upon the lake. The sun was just touching the crest of the mountains, but its full light still fell upon the dark, pine-covered body of Spirit Island. Involuntarily Piper rowed toward the island. “I’d just like to land there alone and look it over again,” he muttered. “Springer thinks I wouldn’t dare. Huh! I’ve got a loaded gun, and I’d like to see a ghost that could make me run now. By smoke! I’ve half a mind to do it!” This temptation persisted even when he had rowed close to the island, for all of the fact that he could again feel more than a touch of the awesome, scarey sensation that he had experienced during his previous visit to that haunted spot. “I’ll do it!” he suddenly decided, choking down the unmanning fears with a strong hand. “I’ll just land and look around a few minutes before it gets dark.”