He was finishing a sketchy breakfast in his dressing-gown the next morning, when his chief croupier called. Kemmler had a mind to send back a message that he was out, but thought better of it. The croupier would never have come to his hotel unless there was something urgent to tell him, and Max recalled what he had been told about the Saint with a twinge of vague uneasiness.
"What's the trouble, major?" he asked curtly, when the man was shown in.
The other glanced around at the display of strapped and bulging luggage.
"Are you going away, Mr. Kemmler?"
"Just changing my address, that's all," said Kemmler bluffly."This place is a little too near the high spots — there's always half a dozen gumshoes snooping around looking for con-men and I don't like it. It ain't healthy. I'm moving over to a quiet little joint in Bloomsbury, where I don't have to see so many policemen."
"I think you're wise." The croupier sat on the bed and brushed his hat nervously. "Mr. Kemmler — I thought I ought to come and see you at once. Something has happened."
Kemmler looked at his watch.
"Something's always happening in this busy world," he said with a hearty obtuseness which did not quite carry conviction. "Let's hear about it."
"Well, Mr.Kemmler — I don't quite know how to tell you. It was after we closed down this morning — I was on my way home —"
He broke off with a start as the telephone bell jangled insistently through the room. Kemmler grinned at him emptily, and picked up the receiver.