THE GIRL IN THE PURPLE MASK.

Auckland Star, Volume LVII, Issue 9, 12 January 1926, Page 12

THE GIRL IN THE PURPLE MASK.

By ROLAND VANE,

Author of "Butterfly or tlie Cabaret," "Serat the .Sheik," etc. CHAPTER XXVn. A Clue At Last! A week had passed and Woodward Wi«s on his feet again. He had pondered over the story he. should tell Io the Italian police, and eventually decided Unit ii was useless to [expect'them tv believe that Barrowby aril Degreville were the thieves while Marion was merely sinned again. _ instead of being a -inner. He told them al last that he did not , knJeA who liis assailant had been. He i li.ijl .slept for n while on the terrace —j I)_jg.eville had already told them that : lie; had last seen Woodward asleep on ; tlit lerraci —and, awakius., he had pone 1 fof a stroll in the garden before going j to'his bed. ' | He had heard a rustle in the bushes, i and had turned. Then had come the <!tisl,in_r blow which had I,l..tied out everything. He awoke to find himself imbed. Jfhat was the story he told, and Unit was the story which the police accepted. Tliey had no doubt hill that it was j the work of Marion Scarborough. She j was a dangi rous signo'rita, they told j him. They had heard from Loudon niijd Monte Carlo nbou* her. J.Jui.klwhi.l let them think so. They wAtild change their opinion one day—| aijj that day would conic soon if he had anything to do with it. Jn the meantime he must watch —and wait. .lie removed his things from the hotel in»ft'enice to the Excelsior on the Lido. Ills object was to keep Degreville under observation. Deyreville was goiny out ofjjhis wav to be pidite to Woodward iio». iliit he let nothing drop, and AVoodwrud- was beginning to despair. Would Inajevcr hit upon a clue as to where MS) ion had been taken? Sometimes hcjjfelt like getting hold of the Count aijl choking the truth from him. but Jiejjrest.aiiied himself. That would do tujigood. No, he must keep phi vine a watching game. JEJe was glad he had done so a few <h:*v!s later. He was sitting- in the lotjpge when Degreville dropped into a chiiir near him. nnd began to talk to hiM. He had not got very far, liow-cvJ-J-. before a page came to the Count an|l informed him that the manager

would like- to speak to him. Degreville rose, apologised to Woodward, and went oft. '•Curious,'' said Woodward to himself. "It's not often that the manager requests a jjuest to wait upon liiui —and it's not often that a guest of the Count's standing doos such-a thing. What's the reason?" There could only be one reason. Degreville had run tip a bill and had not paid it. The courtesy of even a Continental hotel manager is liable to wane under such circumstances. When Degreville came back from his interview with the manager, Woodward could see that his shrewd guess was correct. Degreville was flustered. - He dropped back into the chair he had taken next to Woodward, and tlie journalist could see that he was suffering under some great emotion. He remembered now that Degreville had been going very easy lately. He had not paid cash for anything—even his drinks in the .American bar had been put on his bill. "Yon will please excuse mc, Mr. Woodward," said the Count at last, getting to his feet. "I have an important telegram 10 send off. - ' "Certainly,"' said Woodward, and tlie Count left. Woodward's eyes followed him. The Count crossed to the hotel desk and drew over a telegram form. He scribbled on it. read it over to himself, and then, folding it. called over a page and handed it to him. The boy departed, and the Count strolled away. The journalist watched him until he had left the lounge. Then, getting to his feet, he, too, crossed over to the desk. He drew the pad of telegram forms toward him, and picked up tlie pencil whielj was attached to them. It was, as he had expected, a hard pencil. Carelessly he scribbled a word on the form, and then tore off the form as though he had made a mistake). Crumpling it up. he placed it in his pocket. Then, on the next form, he wrote out a simple message of greeting to a friend in London. ''.lack will wonder what is wrong with mc when he gets this." he said to himself, smiling as he handed the form to a page and paid for the message. "If only he knew that it is window-dress-ing—just in case the Count happens to be watching!" But the Count was not watching, and,ten minutes later, when Woodward left The lounge, there was still no sign of Degreville. Straight to his room went Woodward. There he drew out the crumpled telegram form and smoothed it carefully.

Ho subjected it to a close scrutiny. The form was made of thin paper, tlie pencil with which the Count's telegram, had been written was hard. The marks of his writing had been impressed through the other form and were just discernable upon this one. It was impossible to read the message, whatever it was, but that did not trouble Woodward. The address was what he wanted, and he held the form this way and that, scrutinising it carefully. "'B A.''' he read out. "It must be 'Barrowby.' 'Postc,' that's 'Poste Restante,' but where?" Again he scrutinised the form. It was a short word which followed the "Poste Restante," and had not been impressed so hard. It was a word of four letters. '•Four letters. What can it be?" he ruminated. "This first one looks like a 'W. By Jove. I've got it! 'Wien.' Vienna!" Vienna! So that was where Barrowby was! Of course, the telegram, being addressed to a poste restante would have to be in Barrowby's proper name, for the latter would have to produce his passport before he could have the wire. Things were clear now—so clear that Woodward reviled himself for not having thought of that before. Of course, the Austrian frontier would be the easiest to cross, especially with an aeroplane. They would have kept to the mountains, of course, and crossed somewhere where there was no pass through them. Once over the mountains the thin" was easy. The plane could descend, unload Barrowby and the kidnapped Marion, and return to .. .nice without anyone being any the wiser. "Vienna! And I never thought of it!" gasped Woodward. "Why, it's the very place Barrowby would make for. He's bound to know the city, and he could hide there until any hue and cry which might have been raised had died down. Can Marion be with him? Well, whether she is or not, I'll find out from him where he has put her." He was violently excited now. There was no time to lose. He simply flung his things into his bags, rang the bell, aud asked for his bill to be sent to him. There was a train from Venice at two o'clock. He could just do it. A carriage was awaiting him by" the time' he had paid his bill. He drove in it to the Lido landing station. Steamboats were faster than gondolas, and he was just in time to catch one.

At the Molo in Venice he alighted from the steamer and raced to the landing stage from which the smaller steamers started for their trip along the Grand Canal to the railway station. And, with five minutes to spare, he swung himself into a first-class carriage bound for. Vienna —and whatever Vienna might bring! CHAPTER XXVIII. The Man in the Post Office. Marion Scarborough crossed to the window of her room and pulled aside the blinds which shut out the view of the morning sunlight. Not that the view was worth seeing, for the window was up three storeys and it overlooked the side of the hotel. Down below was a narrow alley in which children played, for this hotel in which she was staying was not in a particularly fashionable quarter of Vienna. ' Marion stood for a while gazing out of the window with unseeing eyes. Her mind was far away. Suddenly a knock on the door of this little sitting-room which connected with her bedroom made her turn. "May I come in t" queried a voice. Marion shrugged her shoulders impatiently. "I suppose you might as well," she called back, and then flung herself down in a comfortable easy chair, which was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room. The door opened and the figure of the Honourable Bertram Barrowby crossed the threshold. There was a smile on his face, and he made himself quite at home in this private sitting-room of Marion's. "Well?" he queried, throwing himself into another chair, and lighting a cigarette without asking Marion's permission to smoke. "Well." echoed Marion, unconcernedly. "You've made up your mind, I suppose." said Barrowby. "I made it up long ago," she answered. ''Do you mean to say that you are stubborn?" "If you like to call it stubbornness," the girl answered. "You brought mc to Vienna. I didn't ask you to. You had reasons of your own. X came with you because I had nowhere else to go." "You know you «re suspected of the jewel robbery at the Lido?" "I know you have successfully placed the blame on mc," Marion answered. "You are wanted by the police in Italy, France, and England now," he said with a laugh. "You wanted a hid-

ing place. I brought you here. And yet you are not grateful to mc." "I should, of course,tbe grateful to you for putting the Lilame of the robbery upon mc," she answered with heavy sarcasm. Barrowby grinned until he showed his teeth. "Rather clever on my part, eh?" he said. "Well, don't forget that there will be an end to my patience one day. And when that day comes—l have but to leave you here, and you will soon be in the hands of the police. Don't forget you have no money, and even the clothes which you wear were bought by nie." "Simply because you knew that it would arouse suspicion if I arrived in Vienna in the evening clothes I had when you carried mc off," answered Marion. Barrowby was quiet for a while. Then, drawing his chair nearer to Marion, he leaned forward. ''Why won't you see things properly, Marion?" he asked. "If we worked together we could pull off some really fine jobs. Even here in Vienna there's some lovely pickings to be had. Just say the word, old girl, and I'll get you the finest clothes there are to be had here, and we'll shift to the most fashionable hotel. You're pretty enough to turn the heads of half the young men of Vienna. There won't be* anything for you to do except introduce them to mc." "And you'll rook them at cards," said Marion, her lip curling scornfully. "I'm to be the 'stool pigeon,' to bring the poor deluded things to be plucked." "You'll have to give in sooner or later," said Barrowby, a touch of temper coming into his tones as he saw that he was mat ing no headway. "You can't live on my charity for ever!" laughed Marion. "I like that. You're just keeping mc here so that I can't give you away, and also because you think I'll give in to you before long and become your partner in your little game of fleecing poor boys who ought still to be at school." Barrowby bit his lip. He had coaxed, cajoled and threatened Marion ever since they came to Vienna—whither he had brought her immediately after the landing on Austrian soil from Count Degreville's aeroplane. But always she had stood out against him. He had hoped that, by this time, she would have altered her mind and elected to become his partner. But Marion had other things in mind. She was posing at this hotel as his sister-in-law. Barrowby, who spoke German perfectly, was passing under the name of a German baron. His wife,

he was careful to explain to those whoso acquaintance he made, was English, but she had been left behind in Switzerland, owing to ill-health. As he'was compelled to make a business trip to Vienna, he had brought his wife's sister with him. So far, Marion had been content to keep up the pretence. Her reason was that she wished to find out several things about Barrowby. Sh knew that he would try to dispose of the jewels he had stolen at Venice, and she suspected that he would try to dispose of them to Quilter. Quilter was abroad somewhere, for England had grown too hot to hold him. Marion wanted to know Quilter's whereabouts. When she could get the chance she intended to send a telegram, in care-fully-guarded language, to Woodward. (To be continued daily.)