Least we're on the same page, then. [His sigh matches hers and he starts pacing around- looking. And stops. Eyes falling to the ground, at his feet. He reconsiders.] But it-- it doesn't feel like we've been drugged. [He meets her eyes carefully, mentally grasping at straws.] And I've seen Marlowe's creepy hideout and unless she hired a different interior decorator, this isn't her style...

[The 'so what now?' is implied in his tone. Because while he concluded some time ago that neither of those explanations fit, he's not sure he is comfortable with accepting that this place is somehow real.]