Presently he saw a man enter and go straight to the stall designated by the letter to Margie, and the door was closed behind him. Now Carter began to wait for the girl, and ten minutes later she came in. Glancing up and down the place as if looking for him Carter saw her enter the same stall and heard a slight ejaculation when she found it occupied. Just then the detective moved his seat to a table nearer the stall and indulged again. After drinking a third glass a strange feeling of drowsiness seemed to take possession of him, and he tried to shake it off. In vain, however, did he battle against the feeling, it only grew stronger, till at last he became aware that he was sinking into unconsciousness. His last recollection was of trying to rise and then sinking down upon the chair, while everything became black about him. 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: “What became of the girl?” The little wretch only grinned and turned away to wait on a new customer. But he was not to get rid of the champion detective so easily, for the hand of Carter darted over the counter and fastened on him like the talons of a vulture. In Nick’s grip the man was a babe, and as the hand seemed to sink to his bones he emitted a whimper that sounded like a whine and looked blankly into the detective’s face. “I--I never saw the girl,” he cried. “No lies, sir. I want the truth. Who told you to drug me?” “No one. I--I drug nobody. I’m honest.” “So is Satan,” hissed the detective, and just then the little wretch appealed to the owner of the establishment for protection. “No interference, Number Six,” said the detective, with a look at the broad-shouldered owner of the Trocadero, and the man thus designated winced. “Tell the gentleman the truth, Caddy,” he said to the little man; but that person was still stubborn.