I rather enjoyed the detective's temper-fit, though Cummings's eyes were saucer-round. "If you think he's angry now, watch him when we find the Doctor. Don't let him out of your sight, unless you want to do the paperwork for a manslaughter."
Finally Mr. Holmes, more under control (by that meaning, not kicking any loose objects into the walls), motioned to me. "What else was in his pockets?"
"Not much," I replied. "Here. Coins, dirty handkerchief, an old newspaper."
"Do you know who he is?"
"Working on it," I replied immediately. "He's…" I fell silent, seeing that he was no longer listening, but was carefully picking up the Doctor's still-damp wallet.
Thin fingers suddenly clenched around it, and a dangerous gleam began to smolder in his eyes. He thrust the wallet into his inner pocket, spinning on his heel.
"I have someone who might be of more help than your identification department, Lestrade," he shouted over his shoulder. "Meet me at Baker Street in one hour!"
I massaged my temples as the door slammed.
"Inspector, he just took police evidence!"
Well-meaning lad, but inexperienced. "Did you want to take it back from him, Constable?"
"Err…no, sir."
"Then shut up. And send a wire to Baker Street. Ask Mrs. Hudson if she might be so kind as to make us an early breakfast."