And then, suddenly, Azalea had a vision. She saw a man come into a dark room—a room lighted only by a flickering fire. She saw him lay aside his coat, unscrew his tin arm, take something from the mantel shelf, place it within, then replace the arm and the coat. She remembered how he had asked her if she ever dreamed, and how she had said she never told her dreams, and he had said that was right. And she had remembered the look that had gone from him to her and back again—a look which was a promise on her part not to tell what she had seen and a message from him of confidence in her. She sat rigid, going over the scene again before she spoke. When she did the girls hardly recognized her voice.
“I know!” she said—not very loud.
“You know?” The others cried it together.
“He kept his money in his tin arm.”
“No!”
“How do you know?”
“I saw him put some there once.”
“When?”
“Where?”