by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XIV
WHEREIN MILLICENT ARMS FOR THE FRAY
Millicent was wondering how she would fare in the deep snow in bootsthat were never built for such a test. She was standing on the sweptroadway between the hotel and the stables, and the tracks of herquarry were plainly visible. But the hope of discovering someexplanation of Bower's queer behavior was more powerful than her dreadof wet feet. She was gathering her skirts daintily before taking thenext step, when the two men suddenly reappeared.
They had left the village and were crossing the line of the path.Shrinking back under cover of an empty wagon, she watched them.Apparently they were heading for the Orlegna Gorge, and she scannedthe ground eagerly to learn how she could manage to spy on themwithout being seen almost immediately. Then she fell into the sameerror as Helen in believing that the winding carriage road to thechurch offered the nearest way to the clump of firs and azaleas bywhich Bower and Stampa would soon be hidden.
Three minutes' sharp walking brought her to the church, but there thehighway turned abruptly toward the village. As one side of the smallravine faced south, the sun's rays were beginning to have effect, anda narrow track, seemingly leading to the hill, was almost laid bare.In any event, it must bring her near the point where the men vanished,so she went on breathlessly. Crossing the rivulet, already swollenwith melting snow, she mounted the steps cut in the hillside. It washeavy going in that thin air; but she held to it determinedly.
Then she heard men's voices raised in anger. She recognized one. Bowerwas speaking German, Stampa a mixture of German and Italian. Millicenthad a vague acquaintance with both languages; but it was of theOllendorf order, and did not avail her in understanding their rapid,excited words. Soon there were other sounds, the animal cries, thesobs, the labored grunts of men engaged in deadly struggle. Thoroughlyalarmed, more willing to retreat than advance, she still clambered on,impelled by irresistible desire to find out what strange thing washappening.
At last, partly concealed by a dwarf fir, she could peer over a wallinto the tiny cemetery. She was too late to witness the actual fight;but she saw Stampa spring upright, leaving his prostrate opponentapparently lifeless. She was utterly frightened. Fear rendered hermute. To her startled eyes it seemed that Bower had been killed by thecrippled man. Soon that quite natural impression yielded to one ofsustained astonishment. Bower rose slowly, a sorry spectacle. To herwoman's mind, unfamiliar with scenes of violence, it was surprisingthat he did not begin at once to beat the life out of the lame oldpeasant who had attacked him so viciously. When Stampa closed the gateand motioned Bower to kneel, when the tall, powerfully built man kneltwithout protest, when the reading of the Latin service began,--well,Millicent could never afterward find words to express her conflictingemotions.
But she did not move. Crouching behind her protecting tree, guardingher very breath lest some involuntary cry should betray her presence,she watched the whole of the weird ceremonial. She racked her brainsto guess its meaning, strained her ears to catch a sentence that mightbe identified hereafter; but she failed in both respects. Of course,it was evident that someone was buried there, someone whose memory thewild looking villager held dear, someone whose grave he had forcedBower to visit, someone for whose sake he was ready to murder Bower ifthe occasion demanded. So much was clear; but the rest was blurred, amedley of incoherences, a waking nightmare.
Oddly enough, it never occurred to her that a woman might be lying inthat dreary tenement. Her first vague imagining suggested that Bowerhad committed a crime, killed a man, and that an avenger had draggedhim to his victim's last resting place. That Stampa was laboriouslyplodding through the marriage ritual was a fantastic conceit of whichshe received no hint. There was nothing to dissolve the mist in hermind. She could only wait, and marvel.
As the strange scene drew to its close, she became calmer. Shereflected that some sort of registry would be kept of the graves. Afew dismal monuments, and two rows of little black wooden crosses thatstuck up mournfully out of the snow, gave proof positive of that. Shecounted the crosses. Stampa was standing near the seventh from a tombeasily recognizable at some future time. Bower faced it on his knees.She could not see him distinctly, as he was hidden by the other man'sbroad shoulders; but she did not regret it, because the warm browntints of her furs against the background of snow and foliage mightwarn him of her presence. She thanked the kindly stars that broughther here. No matter what turn events took now, she hoped to hold thewhip hand over Bower. There was a mystery to be cleared, of course;but with such materials she could hardly fail to discover its truebearings.
So she watched, in tremulous patience, quick to note each movement ofthe actors in a drama the like to which she had never seen on thestage.
At last Bower slunk away. She heard the crunching of his feet on thesnow, and, when Stampa ceased his silent prayer, she expected that hewould depart by the same path. To her overwhelming dismay, he wheeledround and looked straight at her. In reality his eyes were fixed onthe hills behind her. He was thinking of his unhappy daughter. Thegiant mass of Corvatsch was associated in his mind with the girl'slast glimpse of her beloved Switzerland, while on that same memorableday it threw its deep shadow over his own life. He turned to themountain to seek its testimony,--as it were, to the consummation of atragedy.
But Millicent could not know that. Losing all command of herself, sheshrieked in terror, and ran wildly among the trees. She stumbled andfell before she had gone five yards over the rough ground. Quite in apanic, confused and blinded with snow, she rose and ran again, only tofind herself speeding back to the burial ground. Then, in a very agonyof distress, she stood still. Stampa was looking at her, with mildsurprise displayed in every line of his expressive features.
"What are you afraid of, _signorina_?" he asked in Italian.
She half understood, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.Her terror was manifest, and he pitied her.
He repeated his question in German. A child might have recognized thatthis man of the benignant face and kindly, sorrow laden eyes intendedno evil.
"I am sorry. I beg your pardon, Herr Stampa," she managed to stammer.
"Ah, you know me, then, _signorina_! But everybody knows old Stampa.Have you lost your way?"
"I was taking a little walk, and happened to approach the cemetery. Isaw----"
"There is nothing to interest you here, madam, and still less to causefear. But it is a sad place, at the best. Follow that path. It willlead you to the village or the hotel."
Her fright was subsiding rapidly. She deemed the opportunity too goodto be lost. If she could win his confidence, what an immense advantageit would be in her struggle against Bower! Summoning all her energies,and trying to remember some of the German sentences learned in herschool days, she smiled wistfully.
"You are in great trouble," she murmured. "I suppose Herr Bower hasinjured you?"
Stampa glanced at her keenly. He had the experience of sixty yearsof a busy life to help him in summing up those with whom he came incontact, and this beautiful, richly dressed woman did not appeal tohis simple nature as did Helen when she surprised his grief on amorning not so long ago. Moreover, the elegant stranger was littlebetter than a spy, for none but a spy would have wandered among therocks and shrubs in such weather, and he was in no mood to suffer herinquiries.
"I am in no trouble," he said, "and Herr Bauer has not injured me."
"But you fought," she persisted. "I thought you had killed him. Ialmost wish you had. I hate him!"
"It is a bad thing to hate anyone. I am three times your age; so youmay, or may not, regard my advice as excellent. Come round by thecorner of the wall, and you will reach the path without walking in thedeep snow. Good morning, madam."
He bowed with an ease that would have proclaimed his nationality if hehad not been an Italian mountaineer in every poise and gesture.Stooping to recover his Alpine hat, which was lying near the cross atthe head of the grave, he passed out through the gate before Millicent
was clear of the wall. He made off with long, uneven, but rapidstrides, leaving her hot with annoyance that a mere peasant shouldtreat her so cavalierly. Though she did not understand all he said,she grasped its purport. But her soreness soon passed. The great factremained that she shared some secret with him and Bower, a secret ofan importance she could not yet measure. She was tempted to go insidethe cemetery, and might have yielded to the impulse had not a load ofsnow suddenly tumbled off the broad fronds of a pine. The incidentset her heart beating furiously again. How lonely was this remotehilltop! Even the glorious sunshine did not relieve its broodingsilence.
Thus it came about that these three people went down into the valley,each within a short distance of the others, and Spencer saw them allfrom the high road, where he was questioning an official of thefederal postoffice as to the method of booking seats in the banquetteof the diligence from Vicosoprano.
That he was bewildered by the procession goes without saying. Wherehad they been, and how in the name of wonder could the woman'spresence be accounted for? The polite postmaster must have thoughtthat the Englishman was very dense that morning. Several times heexplained fully that the two desired seats in the diligence must bereserved from Chiavenna. As many times did Spencer repeat theinformation without in the least seeming to comprehend it. He spokewith the detached air of a boy in the first form reciting the fifthproposition in Euclid. At last the postmaster gave it up in despair.
"You see that man there?" he said to a keenly interested policemanwhen Spencer strolled away in the direction of the village. "He is ofthe most peculiar. He talks German like a parrot. He must be a richAmerican. Perhaps he wants to buy a diligence."
"_Wer weiss?_" said the other. "Money makes some folk mad."
And, indeed, through Spencer's brain was running a Bedlamite jingle,a triolet of which the dominant line was Bower, Stampa, and MillicentJaques. The meeting of Bower and Stampa was easy of explanation. Afterthe guide's story of the previous evening, nothing but Stampa's deathor Bower's flight could prevent it. But the woman from the WellingtonTheater, how had she come to know of their feud? He was almost temptedto quote the only line of Moliere ever heard beyond the shores ofFrance.
Like every visitor to the Maloja, he was acquainted with each ofits roads and footpaths except the identical one that these threedescended. Where did it lead to? Before he quite realized what he wasdoing, he was walking up the hill. In places where the sun had not yetcaught the snow there was a significant trail. Bower had come and goneonce, Stampa, or some man wearing village-made boots, twice; butthe single track left by Millicent's smart footwear added anotherperplexing item to the puzzle. So he pressed on, and soon was gazingat the forlorn cemetery, with its signs of a furious struggle betweenthe gateposts, the uncovered grave space, and Millicent's track roundtwo corners of the square built wall.
It was part of his life's training to read signs. The mining engineerwho would hit on a six-inch lode in a mountain of granite must combineimagination with knowledge, and Spencer quickly made out something ofthe silent story,--something, not all, but enough to send him inhaste to the hotel by the way Millicent had arrived on the scene.
"Guess there's going to be a heap of trouble round here," he said tohimself. "Helen must be recalled to London. It's up to me to make thecable hot to Mackenzie."
He had yet to learn that the storm which brought about a good deal ofthe preceding twenty-four hours' excitement had not acted in anyniggardly fashion. It had laid low whole sections of the telegraphsystem on both sides of the pass during the night. Gangs of men werebusy repairing the wires. Later in the day, said a civil spokenattendant at the _bureau des postes_, a notice would be exhibitedstating the probable hour of the resumption of service.
"Are the wires down beyond St. Moritz?" asked Spencer.
"I cannot give an assurance," said the clerk; "but these southwestgales usually do not affect the Albula Pass. The road to St. Moritz ispracticable, as this morning's mail was only forty minutes behindtime."
Spencer ordered a carriage, wrote a telegram, and gave it to thedriver, with orders to forward it from St. Moritz if possible. Andthis was the text:
"MACKENZIE, 'FIREFLY' OFFICE, FLEET-ST., LONDON. Wire Miss Wynton positive instructions to return to England immediately. Say she is wanted at office. I shall arrange matters before she arrives. This is urgent. SPENCER."
A heavy weight gradually lifted off his shoulders as he watched thewheels of the vehicle churning up the brown snow broth along thevalley road. Within two hours his message would reach a telegraphoffice. Two more would bring it to Mackenzie. With reasonable luck,the line repairers would link Maloja to the outer world thatafternoon, and Helen would hie homeward in the morning. It was a pitythat her holiday and his wooing should be interfered with; but whocould have foretold that Millicent Jaques would drop from the sky inthat unheralded way? Her probable interference in the quarrel betweenStampa and Bower put Mrs. de la Vere's suggestion out of court. Awoman bent on requiting a personal slight would never consent toforego such a chance of obtaining ample vengeance as Bower's earlierhistory provided.
In any case, Spencer was sure that the sooner Helen and he wereremoved from their present environment the happier they would be. Hehoped most fervently that the course of events might be made smoothfor their departure. He cared not a jot for the tittle-tattle of thehotel. Let him but see Helen re-established in London, and it wouldnot be his fault if they did not set forth on their honeymoon beforethe year was much older.
He disliked this secret plotting and contriving. He adopted suchmethods only because they offered the surest road to success. Were heto consult his own feelings, he would go straight to Helen, tell herhow chance had conspired with vagrom fancy to bring them together, andask her to believe, as all who love are ready to believe, that theirunion was predestined throughout the ages.
But he could not explain his presence in Switzerland without referringto Bower, and the task was eminently distasteful. In all thingsconcerning the future relations between Helen and himself, he was donewith pretense. If he could help it, her first visit to the Alps shouldnot have its record darkened by the few miserable pages torn out ofBower's life. After many years the man's sin had discovered him. Thatwhich was then done in secret was now about to be shrieked aloud fromthe housetops. "Even the gods cannot undo the past," said the oldGreeks, and the stern dogma had lost nothing of its truth with themarch of the centuries. Indeed, Spencer regretted his rival'sthreatened exposure. If it lay in his power, he would prevent it:meanwhile, Helen must be snatched from the enduring knowledge of herinnocent association with the offender and his pillory. He set hismind on the achievement. To succeed, he must monopolize her companyuntil she quitted the hotel en route for London.
Then he thought of Mrs. de la Vere as a helper. Her seemingshallowness, her glaring affectations, no longer deceived him.The mask lifted for an instant by that backward glance as sheconvoyed Helen to her room the previous night had proved altogetherineffective since their talk on the veranda. He did not stop to askhimself why such a woman, volatile, fickle, blown this way and thatby social zephyrs, should champion the cause of romance. He simplythanked Heaven for it, nor sought other explanation than was givenby his unwavering belief in the essential nobility of her sex.
Therein he was right. Had he trusted to her intuition, and toldMillicent Jaques at the earliest possible moment exactly how mattersstood between Helen and himself, it is only reasonable to suppose thatthe actress would have changed her plan of campaign. She had nogenuine antipathy toward Helen, whose engagement to Spencer would beher strongest weapon against Bower. As matters stood, however, Helenwas a stumbling block in her path, and her jealous rage was in processof being fanned to a passionate intensity, when Spencer, searching forMrs. de la Vere, saw Millicent in the midst of a group composed of theVavasours, mother and son, the General, and his daughters.
Mrs. de Courcy Vavasour was the evil spirit who brought about thissinister gathering. She
was awed by Bower, she would not risk asnubbing from Mrs. de la Vere, and she was exceedingly annoyed tothink that Helen might yet topple her from her throne. To one of hertype this final consideration was peculiarly galling. And thetoo susceptible Georgie would be quite safe with the lady fromthe Wellington Theater. Mrs. Vavasour remembered the malice inMillicent's fine eyes when she refused to quail before Bower's wrath.A hawk in pursuit of a plump pigeon would not turn aside to snap up aninsignificant sparrow. So, being well versed in the tactics of thesesocial skirmishes, she sought Millicent's acquaintance.
The younger woman was ready to meet her more than halfway. The hotelgossips were the very persons whose aid she needed. A gracious smileand a pouting complaint against the weather were the preliminaries. Intwo minutes they were discussing Helen, and General Wragg was drawninto their chat. Georgie and the Misses Wragg, of course, cameuninvited. They scented scandal as jackals sniff the feast provided bythe mightier beasts.
Millicent, really despising these people, but anxious to hear thestory of Bower's love making, made no secret of her own sorrows. "MissWynton was my friend," she said with ingenuous pathos. "She never metMr. Bower until I introduced her to him a few days before she came toSwitzerland. You may guess what a shock it gave me when I heard thathe had followed her here. Even then, knowing how strangely coincidenceworks at times, I refused to believe that the man who was my promisedhusband would abandon me under the spell of a momentary infatuation.For it can be nothing more."
"Are you sure?" asked the sympathetic Mrs. Vavasour.
"By gad!" growled Wragg, "I'm inclined to differ from you there, MissJaques. When Bower turned up last week they met as very old friends, Ican assure you."
"Obviously a prearranged affair," said Mrs. Vavasour.
"None of us has had a look in since," grinned Georgie vacuously. "EvenReggie de la Vere, who is a deuce of a fellah with the girls, couldnot get within yards of her."
This remark found scant favor with his audience. Miss Beryl Wragg, whohad affected de la Vere's company for want of an eligible bachelor,pursed her lips scornfully.
"I can hardly agree with that," she said. "Edith de la Vere may be asport; but she doesn't exactly fling her husband at another woman'shead. Anyhow, it was amazing bad form on her part to include MissWynton in her dinner party last night."
Millicent's blue eyes snapped. "Did Helen Wynton dine in publicyesterday evening?" she demanded.
"Rather! Quite a lively crowd they were too."
"Indeed. Who were the others?"
"Oh, the Badminton-Smythes, and the Bower man, and thatAmerican--what's his name?"
Then Millicent laughed shrilly. She saw her chance of delivering adeadly stroke, and took it without mercy. "The American? Spencer? Whata delightful mixture! Why, he is the very man who is paying MissWynton's expenses."
"So you said last night. A somewhat--er--dangerous statement," coughedthe General.
"Rather stiff, you know--Eh, what?" put in Georgie.
His mother silenced him with a frosty glance. "Of course you have goodreasons for saying that?" she interposed.
Spencer passed at that instant, and there was a thrilling pause.Millicent was well aware that every ear was alert to catch eachsyllable. When she spoke, her words were clear and precise.
"Naturally, one would not say such a thing about any girl without theutmost certainty," she purred. "Even then, there are circumstancesunder which one ought to try and forget it. But, if it is a questionas to my veracity in the matter, I can only assure you that MissWynton's mission to Switzerland on behalf of 'The Firefly' is a mereblind for Mr. Spencer's extraordinary generosity. He is acting throughthe paper, it is true. But some of you must have seen 'The Firefly.'How could such a poor journal afford to pay a young lady one hundredpounds and give her a return ticket by the Engadine express for foursilly articles on life in the High Alps? Why, it is ludicrous!"
"Pretty hot, I must admit," sniggered Georgie, thinking to make peacewith Beryl Wragg; but she seemed to find his humor not to her taste.
"It is the kind of arrangement from which one draws one's ownconclusions," said Mrs. Vavasour blandly.
"But, I say, does Bower know this?" asked Wragg, swinging hiseyeglasses nervously. Though he dearly loved these carpet battles, hewas chary of figuring in them, having been caught badly more than oncebetween the upper and nether millstones of opposing facts.
"You heard me tell him," was Millicent's confident answer. "If herequires further information, I am here to give it to him. Indeed, Ihave delayed my departure for that very reason. By the way, General,do you know Switzerland well?"
"Every hotel in the country," he boasted proudly.
"I don't quite mean in that sense. Who are the authorities? Forinstance, if I had a friend buried in the cemetery here, to whomshould I apply for identification of the grave?"
The General screwed up his features into a judicial frown."Well--er--I should go to the communal office in the village, if Iwere you," said he.
Braving his mother's possible displeasure, George de Courcy Vavasourasserted his manliness for Beryl's benefit.
"I know the right Johnny," he said. "Let me take you to him, MissJaques--Eh, what?"
Millicent affected to consider the proposal. She saw that Mrs.Vavasour was content. "It is very kind of you," she said, with hermost charming smile. "Have we time to go there before lunch?"
"Oh, loads."
"I am walking toward the village. May I come with you?" asked BerylWragg.
"That will be too delightful," said Millicent.
Georgie, feeling the claws beneath the velvet of Miss Wragg's voice,could only suffer in silence. The three went out together. The twowomen did the talking, and Millicent soon discovered that Bower hadunquestionably paid court to Helen from the first hour of his arrivalin the Maloja, whereas Spencer seemed to be an utter stranger to herand to every other person in the place. This statement offered acurious discrepancy to the story retailed by Mackenzie's assistant.But it strengthened her case against Helen. She grew more determinedthan ever to go on to the bitter end.
A communal official raised no difficulty about giving the name of theoccupant of the grave marked by the seventh cross from the tomb shedescribed. A child was buried there, a boy who died three years ago.With Beryl Wragg's assistance, she cross examined the man, but couldnot shake his faith in the register.
The parents still lived in the village. The official knew them, andremembered the boy quite well. He had contracted a fever, and diedsuddenly.
This was disappointing. Millicent, prepared to hear of a tragedy, wasconfronted by the commonplace. But the special imp that attends allmischief makers prompted her next question.
"Do you know Christian Stampa, the guide?" she asked.
The man grinned. "Yes, _signora_. He has been on the road for years,ever since he lost his daughter."
"Was he any relation to the boy? What interest would he have in thisparticular grave?"
The custodian of parish records stroked his chin. He took thought, andreached for another ledger. He ran a finger through an index andturned up a page.
"A strange thing!" he cried. "Why, that is the very place where EttaStampa is buried. You see, _signora_," he explained, "it is a smallcemetery, and our people are poor."
Etta Stampa! Was this the clew? Millicent's heart throbbed. How stupidthat she had not thought of a woman earlier!
"How old was Etta Stampa?" she inquired.
"Her age is given here as nineteen, _signora_; but that is a guess. Itwas a sad case. She killed herself. She came from Zermatt. I havelived nearly all my life in this valley, and hers is the only suicideI can recall."
"Why did she kill herself, and when?"
The official supplied the date; but he had no knowledge of the affairbeyond a village rumor that she had been crossed in love. As for poorold Stampa, who met with an accident about the same time, he nevermentioned her.
"Stampa is the lame Johnny who went up the Forno yesterda
y,"volunteered Georgie, when they quitted the office. "But, I say, MissJaques, his daughter couldn't be a friend of yours?"
Millicent did not answer. She was thinking deeply. Then she realizedthat Beryl Wragg was watching her intently.
"No," she said, "I did not mean to convey that she was my friend; onlythat one whom I know well was interested in her. Can you tell me how Ican find out more of her history?"
"Some of the villagers may help," said Miss Wragg. "Shall we makeinquiries? It is marvelous how one comes across things in the mostunlikely quarters."
Vavasour, whose stroll with a pretty actress had resolved itself intoa depressing quest into the records of the local cemetery, looked athis watch. "Time's up," he announced firmly. "The luncheon gong willgo in a minute or two, and this keen air makes one peckish--Eh, what?"
So Millicent returned to the hotel, and when she entered the diningroom she saw Helen and Spencer sitting with the de la Veres. Edith dela Vere stared at her in a particularly irritating way. Cynicalcontempt, bored amusement, even a quizzical surprise that such avulgar person could be so well dressed, were carried by wirelesstelegraphy from the one woman to the other. Millicent countered with astudied indifference. She gave her whole attention to the efforts ofthe head waiter to find a seat to her liking. He offered her thechoice between two. With fine self control, she selected that whichturned her back on Helen and her friends.
She had just taken her place when Bower came in. He stopped near thedoor, and spoke to an under manager; but his glance swept the crowdedroom. Spencer and Helen happened to be almost facing him, and the girlwas listening with a smile to something the American was saying. Butthere was a conscious shyness in her eyes, a touch of color on her sunbrowned face, that revealed more than she imagined.
Bower, who looked ill and old, hesitated perceptibly. Then he seemedto reach some decision. He walked to Helen's side, and bent over herwith courteous solicitude. "I hope that I am forgiven," he said.
She started. She was so absorbed in Spencer's talk, which dealt withnothing more noteworthy than the excursion down the Vale of Bregaglia,which he secretly hoped would be postponed, that she had not observedBower's approach.
"Forgiven, Mr. Bower? For what?" she asked, blushing now for noassignable reason.
"For yesterday's fright, and its sequel."
"But I enjoyed it thoroughly. Please don't think I am only a fairweather mountaineer."
"No. I am not likely to commit that mistake. It was feminine spite,not elemental, that I fancied might have troubled you. Now I am goingto face the enemy alone. Pity me, and please drink to my success."
He favored Spencer and the de la Veres with a comprehensive nod, andturned away, well satisfied that he had claimed a condition ofconfidence, of mutual trust, between Helen and himself.
Millicent was reading the menu when she heard Bower's voice at hershoulder. "Good morning, Millicent," he said. "Shall we declare atruce? May I eat at your table? That, at least, will be original.Picture the amazement of the mob if the lion and the lamb split asmall bottle."
He was bold; but chance had fenced her with triple brass. "I reallydon't feel inclined to forgive you," she said, with a quite forgivingsmile.
He sat down. The two were watched with discreet stupefaction by many.
"Never give rein to your emotions, Millicent. You did so last night,and blundered badly in consequence. Artifice is the truest art, youknow. Let us, then, be unreal, and act as though we were the dearestfriends."
"We are, I imagine. Self interest should keep us solid."
Bower affected a momentary absorption in the wine list. He gave hisorder, and the waiter left them.
"Now, I want you to be good," he said. "Put your cards on the table,and I will do the same. Let us discuss matters without prejudice, asthe lawyers say. And, in the first instance, tell me exactly whatyou imply by the statement that Mr. Charles K. Spencer, of Denver,Colorado, as he appears in the hotel register, is responsible forHelen Wynton's presence here to-day."