"You'll give me a place to sleep for the night?" he suggested. "Yes. I have only pallets, but you and I have slept on harder couches before this." Within half an hour both men were sound asleep. _10. Enid Mandifer Again_ The silence was not so deadly the following noon as Lanark and Jager dismounted at the hitching-rack in front of Enid Mandifer's; perhaps this was because there were two horses to stamp and snort, two bridles to jingle, two saddles to creak, two pairs of boots to spurn the pathway toward the door. Enid Mandifer, with a home-sewn sunbonnet of calico upon her head, came around the side of the house just as the two men were about to step upon the porch. She called out to them, anxiously polite, and stood with one hand clutched upon her wide skirt of brown alpaca. "Mr. Lanark," she ventured, "I hoped that you would come again. I have something to show you." It was Jager who spoke in reply: "Miss Mandifer, perhaps you may remember me. I'm Parson Jager, I live south of here. Look." He held out something--the _Long Lost Friend_ book. "Did you ever see anything of this sort?" She took it without hesitation, gazing interestedly at the cover. Lanark saw her soft pink lips move, silently framing the odd words of the title. Then she opened it and studied the first page. After a moment she turned several leaves, and a little frown of perplexity touched her bonnet-shaded brow. "These are receipts--recipes--of some kind," she said slowly. "Why do you show them to me, Mr. Jager?" The ex-sergeant had been watching her closely, his hands upon his heavy hips, his beard thrust forward and his head tilted back. He put forth his hand and received back the _Long Lost Friend_. "Excuse me, Miss Mandifer, if I have suspected you unjustly," he said, handsomely if cryptically. Then he glanced sidewise at Lanark, as though to refresh a memory that needed no refreshing--a memory of a living-dead horror that had recoiled at very touch of the little volume. Enid Mandifer was speaking once more: "Mr. Lanark, I had a dreadful night after you left. Dreams ... or maybe not dreams. I felt things come and stand by my bed. This morning, on a bit of paper that lay on the floor----" From a pocket in the folds of her skirt, she produced a white scrap. Lanark accepted it from her. Jager came close to look. "Writing," growled Jager. "In what language is that?" "It's English," pronounced Lanark, "but set down backward--from right to left, as Leonardo da Vinci wrote." The young woman nodded eagerly at this, as though to say that she had already seen as much. "Have you a mirror?" Jager asked her, then came to a simpler solution. He took the paper and held it up to the light, written side away from him. "Now it shows through," he announced. "Will one of you try to read? I haven't my glasses with me." Lanark squinted and made shift to read: