Warshaw proved to be a lean, red-haired, sedate young constable, who had been in the army and who knew a gentleman when he saw one. He was therefore extremely civil to me, and heard my story with great gravity. Afterwards he questioned Giles, and then logged both tales in his pocket-book. He did not seem to suspect that I was guilty of assault or robbery, but intimated politely that it would be just as well if I remained in his company until Inspector Dredge arrived from Murchester. Then I offered him a cigarette and we began to chat. "What do you think of the case?" I asked, lighting up. "I don't know what to think of it, sir," he replied with a doubtful air. "The deceased is dead, but, not being a doctor, I can't see how she came by her death. Her left eye--which I believe was a glass one--is missing, and a man said it was in her head at five o'clock when she attended to him in the shop. Yes," he shook his closely cropped hair, "it's a queer case." "Do you think she was assaulted and rendered insensible for the sake of this glass eye?" "I can't say, sir, and if I might suggest to you, sir, it will be best to ask no questions and to say nothing on your part until Inspector Dredge arrives." "I shall only ask one question, Warshaw. Has anything been stolen?" "No, sir. It isn't a case of burglary, I swear." After Warshaw's hint, of course, I held my tongue. We were in the back room, and the corpse of Mrs. Caldershaw was still lying on the floor with a rug over it. Until Dredge and a doctor arrived the local policeman wisely decided to leave it as it had been found. I shuddered a trifle at the cold clay of the unfortunate woman, which I knew lay under the gaudy rug, and glanced round the room. It was of no great size and furnished in a plain way--comfortable enough, but not luxurious. The walls were adorned with a flamboyant red paper, scrolled aggressively with some unnatural green vegetation; and on the floor a diapered black and white linoleum lay under a white-washed ceiling. The furniture consisted of an Early Victorian horsehair mahogany suite, adorned with vividly tinted antimacassars; a sticky-looking varnished side-board, upon which stood a decayed wedding-cake top under a glass shade; a moderately sized round table covered with a blue cloth, and over it a home-made swing bookcase, containing antique and uninviting volumes, chiefly concerned, as I discovered, with religion. Also there was an old-fashioned grate in which a diminutive fire smouldered, a grandfather clock--now indicating the hour of nine--and finally, on the glaringly covered walls a few cheap oleographs, apparently taken from the Christmas numbers of illustrated papers. A tall brass-pillared lamp, giving out an exceedingly bad light, stood on the round table, and but faintly illuminated the homely apartment.