“It has no less than three points of interest,” sighed Holmes, running a finger over the brim of the battered hat.
“Four,” Sherlock murmured from behind steepled fingers.
“Ah, but a trivial point. To me,” added the first.
Sherlock glanced out of the corner of his eye. “The style is-“
“Bowler, 1884, of Lock and Co. origin,” Holmes finished with a flick of his cigarette.
“Of course. Not a new hat.”
“Quite. The ribbon of silk at the base has snapped, suggesting-“
“A forgetful owner or a poor one,” Sherlock interrupted, dropping his hands to drum them against the arms of his chair.
Holmes exhaled a ribbon of smoke. “A busy man. One whose occupation suggests more pressing matters than the mending of his hat.”
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “The mud on the side of the brim, thrown up from a passing cab-“
“Dogcart,” Holmes muttered, his gray eyes fixed on the other man.
“A man who takes to the streets often,” Sherlock continued, unperturbed.
“At times, a street in particular,” Holmes murmured with a smile. “He is a man of business, though his work does cross an expert’s on occasion.”
Sherlock smiled in turn. “Yes, an expert of analysis and deduction.”
“The final authority and last court of appeal.”
A short silence fell, each man lost in his own reveries.
“Do you think we should return it?” Sherlock asked at last.
“His tread is already upon the stair.”
“We have a new case, by his skipping of every second stair.”
“Then the recovery of his hat will be a surprise to him,” Holmes muttered, closing his eyes and lounging back on the settee.
“Lestrade isn’t easily shocked.”
“The current occupants of this room may change that.”
Sherlock pressed a forefinger to his lips with a smile. “Probably.”
