That night, the vision came for the third time of Orpha gazing intently down at her open palm. It held me; it gripped me till, bathed in sweat, I started up, assured at last of its actual meaning. It was the key, the missing key that was offered to my view in my darling's grasp. She had been made the repositor of it -- or she had found it -- and did not know what to do with it. I saw it all, I was practical; above all else, practical.
However, I sent this letter to Mr. Jackson the next morning: "What have the police done about the key? Have they questioned Miss Bartholomew?" and was more restless than ever till I got the reply.
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