Perry Mason, a lawyer who had to play detective, window washer and a desperate game of blindman's buff…

Della Street, his confidential secretary…

Peter Brunold, who dropped his eye under embarrassing circumstances and wouldn't take a counterfeit…

Paul Drake, a drollfaced private detective, who got results by going without sleep…

Bertha McLane, a working girl with a cross to bear…

Harry McLane, her brother; a young embezzler with a doublecross to bear…

Hartley Basset, a money lender who wanted an eye for an eye and got a bloodshot glass one…

Arthur Colemar, his owleyed bookkeeper…

Sylvia Basset, Basset's browbeaten wife, who planted a gun and reaped a cell…

James Overton, Basset's chauffeurspy…

Dick Basset, Sylvia's hottempered son and protector and Basset's adopted heir…

Hazel Fenwick, who was beaten by a murderer, parked Perry Mason's car before a fire plug and vanished…

Sergeant Holcomb, Perry Mason's blunderingly ubiquitous opponent; a pennyshrewd, poundfoolish cop…

Hamilton Burger, the D.A., honest but stubborn…

Thelma Bevins, a hungry young lady with a unique job, who more than earned her wages…

Judge Winters, who was made to look ridiculous, but took it with a grin…

Perry Mason turned his back to the morning sunlight which streaked in through the windows of his private office and regarded the pile of unanswered mail with a frown.

"I hate this office routine," he said.

Della Street, his secretary, glanced up at him with eyes that contained a glint of amusement in their cool, steady depths. Her smile was tolerant.

"I presume," she said, "having just emerged from one murder case, you'd like another."

"Not necessarily a murder case," he told her, "but a good fight in front of a jury. I like dramatic murder trials, where the prosecution explodes an unexpected bomb under me, and, while I'm whirling through the air, I try to figure how I'm going to light on my feet when I come down… What about this chap with the glass eye?"

"Mr. Peter Brunold," she said. "He's waiting for you in the outer office. I told him you'd probably delegate his case to an assistant. He said he'd either see you or no one."

"What does he look like?"

"He's about forty, with lots of black, curly hair. He has an air of distinction about him and he looks as though he'd suffered. He's the type of man you'd pick for a poet. There's something peculiar in his expression, a soulful, sensitive something. You'll like him, but he's the type that would make business for you, if you ask me—a romantic dreamer who would commit an emotional murder if he felt circumstances required him to do it."

"You can readily detect the glass eye?" Mason inquired.

"I can't detect it at all," she said, shaking her head. "I always thought I could tell an artificial eye as far as I could see one, but I'd never know there was anything wrong with Mr. Brunold's eye."

"Just what was it he told you about his eye?"

"He said he had a complete set of eyes—one for morning—one for evening—one slightly bloodshot—one…"

Perry Mason smacked his fist against his palm. His eyes glinted.

"Take away that bunch of mail, Della," he commanded, "and send in the man with the glass eye. I've fought will contests, tried suits for slander, libel, alienation of affections, and personal injuries, but I'm darned if I've ever had a case involving a glass eye, and this is going to be where I begin. Send him in."

Della Street smiled, vanished silently through the door which led to the reception room where clients who were to see Perry Mason personally were asked to wait. A moment later the door opened.

"Mr. Peter Brunold," she said, standing very slim and erect in the doorway.

Brunold marched past her, strode across the office to Perry Mason, thrust out his hand.

"Thanks for seeing me personally," he said.

The lawyer shook hands, stared curiously at Brunold's eyes.

"Know which one it is?" Brunold asked.

As Mason shook his head, Brunold smiled, sat down and leaned forward.

"I know you're busy. I'm going to get down to brass tacks. I've given your secretary my name, address, occupation, and all the rest of it, so I won't bother with that now.

"I'm going to begin at the beginning and give you the whole business. I won't take much of your time. Do you know anything about glass eyes?"

Perry Mason shook his head.

"All right, I'll tell you something. Making a glass eye is an art. There aren't over thirteen or fourteen people in the United States who can make them. A good glass eye can't be distinguished from a natural eye, if the socket isn't damaged."

Mason, watching him closely, said, "You're moving both eyes."

"Of course I'm moving both eyes. My eye socket wasn't injured. I've got about ninety per cent of natural motion.

"Now then," he went on, "a man's eyes vary. His pupils are smaller during the day than at night. Sometimes his good eye gets bloodshot. Lots of things may account for that, a long drive in an automobile, losing sleep or getting drunk. With me it's usually getting drunk. I'm sensitive about my eye. I'm telling you about it because you're my lawyer. I've got to tell my lawyer the truth, otherwise I'd see you in hell before I told you anything about having a bum eye. None I of my closest friends know it.

"I've got a set of half a dozen eyes—duplicates for some, and some for wear under different conditions. I had one eye that was made bloodshot. It was a swell job. I used it when I'd been out on a binge the night before."

The lawyer slowly nodded. "Go on," he said.

"Someone stole it and left a counterfeit in its place."

"How do you know?"

Brunold snorted. "How would I know?" he exclaimed. "The same way I'd know anything. How would you know if someone stole your dog, or your horse, and left a cur or an old plug in its place?" He took a case from his pocket, turned back the flaps and disclosed four artificial eyes in leather pockets.

"Carry that with you all the time?" Mason inquired curiously.

"No. Sometimes I slip an extra eye in my vest pocket. I've got a vest pocket lined with chamois skin, so the eye won't scratch. I always keep this leather case in my grip if I'm traveling, or on my dresser if I'm not."

He extracted a glass eye and handed it to the lawyer.

Mason held it in his palm, stared at it thoughtfully.

"Rather a neat job," he said.

"Nothing of the sort," Brunold contradicted. "It's a rotten job. The pupil's a little out of shape. The thing they call the iris is irregular; the colors aren't blended, and the veins are too red. A good vein for a bloodshot eye has a yellowish tint to it… Now, take a look at this eye and you can see what a good eye is like. Of course, that isn't a bloodshot eye like that first one I gave you, but it's an eye made by an expert. You can see the difference. It's got better color. The blending is better. The pupil is regular."

Mason, inspecting the two eyes, nodded thoughtful.

"This isn't your eye?" he asked, tapping the bloodshot eye with his forefinger.

"No."

"Where did you find it?"

"In that leather case of mine."

"You mean to say," the lawyer asked, "that the person who stole your bloodshot eye took it from this case and put the counterfeit eye in the pocket from which the original had been taken?"