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Lestrade leaned back as far as the basket chair would allow. “He’s a model citizen, is Mr. Phillimore, at least to hear his servants tell it, and that’s generally a good way of judging. His employer has nothing to complain of either, nor his neighbours—at least, not the one I talked to, who saw him last. We’ll have to interview the others, of course.”

“Did he, in fact, forget his umbrella?”

Lestrade blinked. “Well, I assume—”

The bell rang downstairs. Holmes looked irritated; I said, “Do you mind, Inspector?” and got up to see who it was.

Stanley Hopkins was talking earnestly to Mrs. Hudson, but when he saw me he stepped away from her and started up the stairs. “Dr. Watson,” he said. “There’s been a most bizarre occurrence—I am sure Mr. Holmes will wish to hear about it—”

“James Phillimore,” said Lestrade, coming up behind me. “We’ve just been discussing it.”

“Ah,” said Hopkins. “Well, ah, in that case...”

They weren’t openly glaring at each other, but Lestrade’s hackles were certainly on their way up. I saw Holmes, leaning against the wall in the sitting room behind Lestrade, where he could see everything without being involved, raise his eyebrow at me ironically. The doorbell rang again. Mrs. Hudson gave me a look very similar to Holmes’, and went to open it.

“Is Holmes in?” asked Gregson, on the doorstep. “A man has disappeared—oh.” Lestrade and Hopkins refocused their expressions—now definitely glares—on him. “Erm.”