The man stopped and grasped Piper by the shoulder.
“Will you promise not to expose me—at least, not for a year?” he asked eagerly. “That would give me time enough. Another season at this ghost game ought to pack that hotel full, and I can get a regular monthly salary to do my part of the work.”
“I’ve always wanted to write stories,” said Sleuth shrewdly. “You seem to know something about that sort of business, and if you’ll put me wise to the game I’ll remain as dumb as an oyster about this spook trick.”
“You won’t tell your friends even?”
“Not a living soul,” vowed Piper.
“Well, I’m not sure that I can instruct you in the art of writing stories; I’ve a lot to learn myself. Nevertheless, I’ll do my best. If you have some natural ability in that line, it may be possible that you can write, but I can’t promise you any degree of success without knowing more of your talents.”
“It’s a bargain, Mr. Granger,” said Piper, putting out his hand in the darkness. “If you’ll do that, I’ll keep mum for a year or more, in case you ask it.”
They shook hands, sealing the pledge.
They had reached the canoe and were about to launch it when distant voices were heard calling:
“Sleuth—oh, Sleuth! Piper! Where are you?”