"Is that you, Kemmler?" said the somnolent voice, in which a thin thread of excitement was perceptible. "Listen — I'm going to give you a shock, but whatever I say you must not give the slightest indication of what I'm talking about. Don't jump, and don't say anything except 'Yes' or 'No.' "
"Yeah?"
"This is Chief Inspector Teal speaking. Have you got a man with you now?"
"Uh-huh."
"I thought so. That's Simon Templar — the Saint. I just saw him go into the hotel. Never mind if you think you know him. That's his favourite trick. We heard he was planning to hold you up, and we want to get him red-handed. Now what about that idea I mentioned yesterday?"
Kemmler looked round inconspicuously. It was difficult to keep the incredulity out of his eyes. The appearance of his most trusted croupier failed to correspond with the description he had heard of the Saint in any respect except that of height and build. Then he saw that the Anglo-Indian complexion could be a simple concoction of grease-paint, the hardness of the features and the moustache and eyebrows an elementary problem in make-up.
The croupier was strolling around the bed, and Kemmler could scarcely control himself as he saw the man touch the pillow underneath which the envelope of notes still lay.
"Well?"
Kemmler fought out a battle with himself of which nothing showed on his face. The Saint's right hand was resting in a side pocket of his coat — there was nothing in that ordinary fact to disturb most people, but to Max Kemmler it had a particular and deadly significance. And his own gun was under the pillow with the money — he had been caught like the veriest greenhorn.
"What about it?" he demanded as calmly as he could.