"I'm afraid we'll have to see that you don't raise an alarm," he said. "Would you mind turning around?"
Max Kemmler turned reluctantly. He was not prepared for the next thing that happened to him, and it is doubtful whether even Chief Inspector Teal could have induced him to submit meekly to it if he had. Fortunately he was given no option. A reverse gun-butt struck him vimfully and scientifically on the occiput, and he collapsed in a limp heap.
When he woke up a page-boy was shaking him by the shoulder and his head was splitting with the worst headache that he had ever experienced.
"Is your luggage ready to go, Mr. Kemmler?"
Kemmler glared at the boy for a few seconds in silence. Then recollection returned to him, and he staggered up with a hoarse profanity.
He dashed to the door and flung it open. The corridor was deserted.
"Where's that guy who was here a minute ago? Where are the cops?" he shouted, and the bellhop gasped at him uncomprehendingly.
"I don't know, sir."
Max Kemmler flung him aside and grabbed the telephone. In a few seconds he was through to Scotland Yard — and Chief Inspector Teal.
"Say, you, what the hell's the idea? What is it, huh? The grand double-cross? Where are those dicks who were going to be waiting for the Saint outside my door? What've you done with 'em?"