“The dog,” pursued Granger, “was buried on the island. The body of Old Lonely was taken to the pauper’s plot in Pemstock cemetery. In an old leather pocketbook upon the hermit’s person were found some newspaper clippings and other papers, which revealed the identity of the man. In that pocketbook there was also a small, faded photograph of a woman, and this, it was eventually learned, was the likeness of the hermit’s wife. Old Lonely’s true name was John Calvert. Years before, in a distant state, he had plundered a bank, for which crime he had been arrested, tried, convicted and sent to prison for twenty years. Within twelve months of his conviction his wife died of a broken heart. How he secured a picture of her after breaking prison, as he eventually did, can only be surmised.
“As an escaped convict he was hunted relentlessly, until the body of a man believed to be that of John Calvert was cast ashore by the waters of Lake Michigan. Thinking the bank looter and prison breaker dead, the authorities quite naturally gave over the hunt. How he came to Spirit Island and why he chose to make his home there for the remainder of his desolate days is likewise a matter of speculation.
“And now comes the strange, and, doubtless you will say, the improbable, part of the story. The island is said to be haunted by the ghosts of Old Lonely and his dog. Venturesome ones, entertaining the belief that Calvert had, ere his arrest, hidden a portion of his plunder, which he recovered after escaping from prison, have searched for the loot on Spirit Island, and half a hundred holes that they have dug in the ground may be seen by anyone who cares to take the trouble and has the courage to do so.”
“Courage!” scoffed Piper, with a laugh, “Who’s afraid? Of course no sensible person believes the island is really haunted.”
Granger smiled. “You’re a brave young chap, I perceive,” he said sarcastically. “I don’t presume you fear ghosts or anything else?”
“Nothing but cuc-cougars,” chuckled Phil Springer. “Brave as he is, Sleuthy has a certain amount of respect for cuc-cougars.”
“I’m not advertising myself as one who believes in spooks,” smiled the entertaining visitor; “but, nevertheless, even though you may feel inclined to ridicule me, I will say that I’ve seen and heard some strange things around Spirit Island, and I’m not the only one, either. Many people have seen vanishing lights flashing there at night. They have heard the weird howling of a dog. They’ve even seen white, ghostly figures upon the shores of the island. When Calvert’s body was found a small eight day clock sat ticking upon a shelf above the man’s bunk, and some of the loot hunters, venturing by day into that desolate hut, have vowed that they plainly heard the ticking of a clock coming from some unknown place. They have likewise heard strange tappings, like the knocking of ghostly fingers. Every little while people from the hotel visit the island, but they always do so in numbers, and it would be a nervy person who would go there alone, especially at night. Perhaps our brave friend, the doubter, would not hesitate to make such a visit, even after nightfall.”
The bare idea, however, was enough to cause the other boys to laugh heartily, whereupon Piper rose to his feet, crying:
“I’m not chump enough to go prowling around anywhere alone at night; but I’ll tell you what, I’d just like to visit that old island in the daytime, and I don’t take any stock in this fine, well polished ghost story.”