In one corner of it sat—Chick Carter.
He was not alone.
His companion was a flashily clad blonde of about thirty, with yellow hair and rouged cheeks, and whose rather bleared eyes and maudlin expression plainly denoted that she had been looking on the wine when it is red in the cup.
“Gee whiz!” thought Patsy, immensely tickled for more reasons than one. “Where did he get next to that? She’s a bird with wilted plumage. He looks all right, but she certainly has her load. There must be something doing, or he wouldn’t be heading out this way with her. But where did he gather her in? That’s what puzzles me.”
Their eyes met a moment later, but no observable sign passed between the two. A momentary twinkle in Chick’s eyes, however, gave Patsy the only needed cue.
Nick Carter’s anticipations were speedily verified when Chick, visiting Larry Trent in his prison cell that afternoon, told the convict what had befallen his sister, and of the other crimes of which Margate was guilty.
Resenting the wrong done the girl, Trent informed Chick that his sister had known Margate only under the name of Matt Gaffney; that the latter had lodged in the same house with her, and that they had been quite friendly, also that Margate could be found almost every evening in a red disguise in a saloon and restaurant run by one Phil Brady, in a red-light section of the city.
Chick thus obtained enough information as he thought would serve his purpose, and eight o’clock that evening found him watching Brady’s establishment from the opposite side of the street.
Half an hour brought no results, however, and Chick then sauntered into the saloon and bought a drink, carelessly asking the bartender:
“Seen Gaffney this evening?”