"Who was it?" he asked Brunold.

"Just young McLane," Brunold said, trying to be casual.

"Know him?"

"Just slightly."

"Know he was coming here?"

"No."

"Know his business here?"

"No."

"Then what made you turn pale?"

"Did I turn pale?"

"Yes."

"I don't know why I did it. Young McLane is nothing to me."

Mason put his hand on Brunold's shoulder. "Well," he said, "you can go out this way, and… Good heavens, man, you're shaking like a leaf!"

"Just nervousness," Brunold said, breaking away and lunging through the door to the outer corridor. "That McLane boy means nothing to me, but the sight of him brings up certain ideas that…"

He stepped into the corridor, stopping abruptly in midsentence. The door slammed behind him.

Perry Mason turned to Della Street.

"Get Paul Drake," he said, "of the Drake Detective Bureau, right away. Keep those two people waiting until after I've had a chance to see Drake. Tell Drake to come down to the corridor door and knock. I'll let him in."

She slipped through the door to the outer office, saying to the waiting couple, "Mr. Mason is busy, but he'll see you in a few minutes."

Perry Mason lit a cigarette, started thoughtfully pacing the office. He was still pacing up and down when a tap sounded at the exit door which led to the corridor. Mason threw back the spring lock, opened the door, and nodded to a tall individual with glassy eyes, and a mouth which was twisted into an expression of droll humor.

"Come in, Paul," he said, "and get an earful of this."

The lawyer took from his pocket the glass eye which Brunold had given him, and passed it over to Paul Drake.

The detective examined it curiously.

"Know anything about glass eyes, Paul?"

"Not very much."

"Well, you're going to know a lot in the near future."

"All right, shoot."

"Go to the Baltimore Hotel, engage a room, look through the classified directory and pick someone who's a wholesaler of artificial eyes. Ring him up. Tell him you're a dealer from out of town; that you've got a customer who wants half a dozen bloodshot eyes to match an eye you're sending over by messenger. Give a phoney name. Say you come from some outlying city, and that you're just starting in business.

"The wholesaler will have a bunch of eyes in stock. They won't be as good as the eyes that are made to order by experts. From all I can gather, it's about the same difference as getting a tailormade suit, or one of the cheaper readymades. But the wholesaler can match this eye and then bloodshot the duplicates."

"What do you mean—bloodshot the duplicates?" Drake inquired.

"Putting veins on the outside of them. They do it with red glass. They'll make a rush job of it for you if they think you're going to be a good future customer. Impress that on them, that you're a new dealer from some outlying town."

"How much will the eyes cost?"

"I don't know—ten or twelve dollars apiece, probably."

"You don't want me to go around there and talk with the dealer personally?"

"No. I don't want him to know what you look like. I don't want him to be able to trace you. Register at the hotel under a phoney name. Give the dealer the phoney name. Keep out of sight as much as possible. Don't tip the bell boys too much or too little. Don't have too much baggage and don't have too little. Be just an ordinary customer of the type that no one will remember if anyone starts checking up on you later on."

Paul Drake's dubious eyes stared steadily at the lawyer.

"Will someone check up on me?" he asked.

"Probably."

"Am I violating any laws, Perry?"

"Nothing that I can't get you out of, Paul."

"Okay. When do I go?"

"Right now."

Drake slipped the eye in his pocket, nodded and turned toward the door.

Perry Mason picked up the telephone and said to Della Street, "All right, Della; I'll see Miss McLane and her brother."

Bertha McLane spoke in a low, sharp tone to the young man who accompanied her. He shook his head, mumbled something in an undertone, and turned to Perry Mason.

Mason indicated chairs.

"You're Miss Bertha McLane?" he asked.

She nodded, turned toward the younger man.

"My brother, Harry."

Mason waited until they were seated, then said, in a kindly voice, "What was it you wanted to see me about?"

She held him with eyes in which there glinted a vigorous determination.

"Who," she asked, "was the man who just left here?"

Perry Mason raised his eyebrows.

"I thought you knew him. I heard him speak to you."

"He didn't speak to me. He spoke to Harry."

"Harry can tell you who he is, then."

"Harry won't tell me. He says it's none of my business. I want you to tell me."

The lawyer shook his head, and smiled. After a moment he said, in a kindly voice, "What was it you wished to see me about?"

"I've got to know who that man was."

The smile left the lawyer's face.

"After all," he said, "this is a law office, you know, not an information bureau."

For a moment there was flashing anger in her eyes. Then she controlled herself.

"After all," she said, "perhaps you're right. If anyone came into my office and tried to find out something about who the man was who was just going out, I'd… I'd…"

"You'd what?" Perry Mason prompted.

She laughed, and said, "Probably lie to him, and tell him I didn't know."

Mason opened a cigarette case and offered her a cigarette.

She hesitated a moment, then took one of the cigarettes, tapped it on her thumbnail with a practiced hand, leaned forward to the flame of the match which Mason held for her, and inhaled deeply. Mason offered a cigarette to Harry McLane, who shook his head in silent refusal. Mason, himself, lit a cigarette, settled back in the chair and looked from the young man to the young woman, then kept his eyes on Bertha McLane, as though expecting her to do the talking.

She adjusted her skirt, and said, "Harry is in trouble."

Harry McLane shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Tell him about it, Harry," she pleaded.

"You tell him," Harry McLane said, speaking in that mumbling undertone which he had used before.

"Did you," she asked the lawyer, "ever hear of Hartley Basset?"

"Seems to me I've heard the name over the radio. Doesn't he make automobile loans?"

"Yes," she said, with feeling in her voice; "he does. He makes all sorts of loans. The automobile loans he makes, he advertises over the radio. He makes other loans that he doesn't advertise so much, and he isn't above buying a piece of stolen jewelry, or financing an expert smuggler."

The lawyer raised his eyebrows quizzically and started to say something, but puffed on his cigarette instead.

"You can't prove all of that stuff," Harry McLane said, in a surly undertone.

"You told me."

"Well, I was just guessing at lots of it."

"No, you weren't, Harry. You know that you were telling the truth. You've worked for him, and you know the kind of business he's running."

"What sort of trouble is Harry in?" Mason inquired.

"He embezzled something over three thousand dollars from Hartley Basset."

The lawyer's eyes shifted to Harry McLane. Harry McLane met his gaze defiantly for a moment, then dropped his eyes and said, in a voice so low that it could hardly be heard, "I was going to pay him back."

"Does Mr. Basset know about it?" Mason inquired.

"He does now."

"When did he find it out?"

"Yesterday."

"Just how did the embezzlement take place?" Mason inquired, turning to the young man. "Was it over a long period of time? Was it in one sum, or was it in smaller sums, and what was done with the money?"