When the detective came to, a singular feeling racked his head and he felt dizzy.
With some effort he managed to stagger to his feet and then he went to the suspected stall.
The door now stood slightly ajar, and he pushed it open, but the place was empty.
Where was Margie, and what had taken place in that secluded spot where perhaps more than one crime had been committed?
After looking at the table and taking in the whole stall the detective shut the door and started toward the walk.
He knew the fame of the Trocadero.
More than once a trail had led him across its precincts, and on several occasions he had picked up important clews under its roof.
But now he himself was the victim of trickery, the dupe of crime, for he doubted not that the drinks had been drugged by some infamous hand and for a purpose.
Behind the bar stood the man who had carried the drinks to him, a little man with one of the worst faces, and the detective thought he looked at him with wonderment as if surprised that he—Carter—had escaped death.
Fixing his eyes upon this man he leaned over the bar and said: