The intelligence with which Lestrade greeted us was so momentous and so unexpected, that we were all three fairly dumdfounded. Gregson sprang out of his chair and upset the remainder of his whiskey and water. I stared in silence at Sherlock Holmes, whose lips were compressed and his brows drawn down over his eyes. "Stangerson too!" he muttered. "The plot thickens." "It was quite thick enough before," grumbled Lestrade, taking a chair. "I seem to have dropped into a sort of council of war." "Are you — are you sure of this piece of intelligence?" stammered Gregson. "'Where is he now?' I asked.