"There!" I said triumphantly, "the man who fired at me had a glass eye.
Is it not a brown one, shot with blood?"
"Right!" he answered after another glance at it, "a bloodshot brown eye it undoubtedly is."
He handed it to me, and I put it in my pocket.
"You had better take care of it," he said. "But I really don't know what to say about your story."
"Perhaps you will deny the evidence of your eyes?" I asked; "look at this."
I pointed to where the bullet from the revolver had struck the looking-glass over the mantelpiece and starred it.
"No," he answered, "that certainly looks as if it had been smashed by a bullet. There is the little round hole where the bullet entered. And there is another point too," he continued, "you say you left the old lady lying on the bed bleeding, not half an hour ago?"
"Certainly."
"Then the bed ought to be warm; let us come and see."
We walked back into the bedroom and examined the bed again.