A gray spring jacket on a slim figure. A gray chauffeur's cap with “canned food” above the visor and a muslin scarf tied in a bow under the chin. High eyebrows, piercing eyes, straight nose. For a second there was a smell of damp night darkness and gasoline smoke. “My name is Irene Adler.” D.E. Summers shook his head, but this only half helped: the main part of the mirage remained sitting on the chair. Pork cutlets were sizzling in the frying pan. The housekeeper covered the frying pan with a lid, took her glasses out of her apron pocket and put them on her nose. “But, Doctor Banks, you didn’t listen to me!” - she said indignantly. - They told me everything themselves! They are businessmen. They both work for Mr. Ford!—And before that? - asked the unpleasant person. “Before they started working for Mr. Ford, do you know what they did?” “You’d think you knew!” “No,” her interlocutor answered honestly. - But when we met these... these gentlemen, they were dressed like tramps, and there was an armed chase after them.