The Last Act
Shortly before leaving Thorndyke’s chambers with Marion and Miss Boler
I managed to secure his permission to confide to them, in general
terms, what was to happen on the morrow; and very relieved I was
thereat, for I had little doubt that questions would be asked which it
would seem ungracious to evade. Events proved that I was not mistaken;
indeed, we were hardly clear of the precincts of the Temple when
Marion opened the inquisition.
“You said yesterday,” she began, “that Dr. Thorndyke might have
something to tell us to-day, and I hoped that he might. I even tried
to pluck up courage to ask him, but then I was afraid that it might
seem intrusive. He isn’t the sort of man that you can take liberties
with. So I suppose that whatever it was that happened this morning is
a dead secret?”
“Not entirely,” I replied. “I mustn’t go into details at present, but
I am allowed to give you the most important item of information. There
is going to be an arrest to-morrow.”
“Do you mean that Dr. Thorndyke has discovered the man?” Marion
demanded incredulously.
“He says that he has, and I take it that he knows. What is more, he
offered to conduct the police to the house. He has actually given them
the address.”
“I would give all that I possess,” exclaimed Miss Boler, “to be there
and see the villain taken.”
“Well,” I said, “you won’t be far away, for the man lives in
Abbey-road, nearly opposite the studio.”
Marion stopped and looked at me aghast. “What a horrible thing to
think of,” she gasped. “Oh, I am glad I didn’t know! I could never
have gone to the studio if I had. But now we can understand how he
managed to find his way to the place that foggy night, and to escape
so easily.”
“Oh, but it is not that man,” I interposed, with a sudden sense of
hopeless bewilderment. For I had forgotten this absolute discrepancy
when I was talking to Thorndyke about the identification.
“Not that man!” she repeated, gazing at me in wild astonishment. “But
that man was my father’s murderer. I feel certain of it.”
“So do I,” was my rather lame rejoinder.
“Besides,” she persisted; “if he was not the murderer, who was he, and
why should he want to kill me?”
“Exactly,” I agreed, “it seems conclusive. But apparently it isn’t. At
any rate, the man they are going to arrest is the man whose mask
Thorndyke found at the studio.”
“Then they are going to arrest the wrong man,” said she, looking at me
with a deeply troubled face. I was uncomfortable, too, for I saw what
was in her mind. The memory of the ruffian who had made that murderous
attack on her still lingered in her mind as a thing of horror. The
thought that he was still at large and might at any moment reappear,
made it impossible for her ever to work alone in the studio, or even
to walk abroad without protection. She had looked, as I had, to the
discovery of the murderer to rid her of this abiding menace. But now
it seemed that even alter the arrest of the murderer, this terrible
menace would remain.
“I can’t understand it,” she said dejectedly. “When you showed me that
photograph of the man who tried to kill me, I naturally hoped that Dr.
Thorndyke had discovered who he was. But now it appears that he is at
large and still untraced, yet I am convinced that he is the man who
ought to have been followed.”
“Never mind, my dear,” I said cheerfully. “Let us see the affair out.
You don’t understand it and neither do I. But Thorndyke does. I have
absolute faith in him, and so, I can see, have the police.”
She assented without much conviction, and then Miss Boler began to
press for further particulars. I mentioned the probable time of the
arrest and the part that I was required to play in identifying the
accused.
“You don’t mean that you are asked to be present when the actual
arrest is made, do you?” Marion asked anxiously.
“Yes,” I answered. “You see I am the only person who really knows the
man by sight.”
“But,” she urged, “you are not a policeman. Suppose this man should be
violent, like that other man; and he probably will be.”
“Oh,” I answered airily, “that will be provided for. Besides, I am not
asked to arrest him; only to point him out to the police.”
“I wish,” she said, “you would stay in the studio until they have
secured him. Then you could go and identify him. That would be much
safer.”
“No doubt,” I agreed. “But it might lead to their arresting the wrong
man and letting the right one slip. No, Marion, we must make sure of
him if we can. Surely you are at least as anxious as any of us that he
should be caught and made to pay the penalty?”
“Yes,” she answered, “if he is really the right man—which I can hardly
believe. But still, punishing him will not bring poor Daddy back,
whereas if anything were to happen to you, Stephen—— Oh! I don’t dare
to think of it!”
“You needn’t think of it, Marion,” I rejoined, cheerfully. “I shall be
all right. And you wouldn’t have your apprentice hang back when these
Bobbies are taking the affair as a mere every-day job.”
She made no reply beyond another anxious glance; and I was glad enough
to let the subject drop, bearing in mind Thorndyke’s words with regard
to the pistol. As a diversion, I suggested a visit to the National
Gallery, which we were now approaching, and the suggestion being
adopted, without acclamation, we drifted in and rather listlessly
perambulated the galleries, gazing vacantly at the exhibits and
exchanging tepid comments. It was a spiritless proceeding, of which I
remember very little but some rather severe observations by Miss Boler
concerning a certain “hussy” (by one, Bronzino) in the great room. But
we soon gave up this hollow pretence, and went forth to board a yellow
’bus which was bound for the Archway Tavern; and so home to an early
supper.
On the following morning I made my appearance betimes at Ivy Cottage,
but it was later than usual when Marion and I started to walk in
leisurely fashion to the studio.
“I don’t know why we are going at all,” said she. “I don’t feel like
doing any work.”
“Let us forget the arrest for the moment,” said I. “There is plenty to
do. Those arms of Polton’s have got to be taken out of the moulds and
worked. It will be much better to keep ourselves occupied.”
“I suppose it will,” she agreed; and then, as we turned a corner and
came in sight of the studio, she exclaimed: “Why, what on earth is
this? There are some painters at work on the studio! I wonder who sent
them. I haven’t given any orders. There must be some extraordinary
mistake.”
There was not, however. As we came up, one of the two linen-coated
operators advanced, brush in hand, to meet us, and briefly explained
that he and his mate had been instructed by Superintendent Miller to
wash down the paint-work and keep an eye on the premises opposite.
They were, in fact, “plain-clothes” men on special duty.
“We have been here since seven o’clock,” our friend informed us, as we
made a pretence of examining the window-sashes, “and we took over from
a man who had been watching the house all night. My nabs is there all
right. He came home early yesterday evening, and he hasn’t come out
since.”
“Then you know the man by sight?” Marion asked eagerly.
“Well, Miss,” was the reply, “we have a description of him, and the
man who went into the house seemed to agree with it; and, as far as we
know, there isn’t any other man living there. But I understand that we
are relying on Dr. Gray to establish the identity. Could I have a look
at the inside woodwork?”
Marion unlocked the door and we entered, followed by the detective,
whose interest seemed to be concerned exclusively with the woodwork of
windows; and from windows in general finally became concentrated on a
small window in the lobby which commanded a view of the houses
opposite. Having examined the sashes of this, with his eye cocked on
one of the houses aforesaid, he proceeded to operate on it with his
brush, which, being wet and dirty and used with a singular lack of
care, soon covered the glass so completely with a mass of opaque
smears that it was impossible to see through it at all. Then he
cautiously raised the sash about an inch, and, whipping out a prism
binocular from under his apron, stood back a couple of feet and took a
leisurely survey through the narrow opening of one of the opposite
houses.
“Hallo!” said he. “There is a woman visible at the first-floor window.
Just have a look at her, sir. She can’t see us through this narrow
crack.”
He handed me the glass, indicating the house, and I put the instrument
to my eyes. It was a powerful glass, and seemed to bring the window
and the figure of the woman within a dozen feet of me. But at the
moment she had turned her head away, apparently to speak to some one
inside the room, and all that I could see was that she seemed to be an
elderly woman who wore what looked like an old-fashioned widow’s cap.
Suddenly she turned and looked out over the half-curtain, giving me a
perfectly clear view of her face, and then I felt myself lapsing into
the old sense of confusion and bewilderment.
I had, of course, expected to recognize Mrs. Morris. But this was
evidently not she, although not such a very different-looking woman:
an elderly, white-haired widow in a crape cap and spectacles—reading
spectacles they must be, since she was looking over and not through
them. She seemed to be a stranger—and not yet quite a stranger, for as
I looked at her some chord of memory stirred. But the cup of my
confusion was not yet full. As I stared at her, trying vainly to sound
a clearer note on that chord of memory, a man slowly emerged from the
darkness of the room behind and stood beside her, and him I recognized
instantly as the bottle-nosed person whom I had watched from my ambush
at the top of Dartmouth-Park-Hill.
“Well, sir,” said the detective, as the man and woman turned away from
the window and vanished, “what do you make of ’em? Do you recognize
’em?”
“I recognize the man,” I replied, “and I believe I have seen the woman
before, but they aren’t the people I expected to see.”
“Oh, dear!” said he. “That’s a bad look-out. Because I don’t think
there is anybody else there.”
“Then,” I said, “we have made a false shot—and yet—well, I don’t know.
I had better think this over and see if I can make anything of it.”
I turned into the studio, where I found Marion—who had been listening
attentively to this dialogue—in markedly better spirits.
“It seems a regular muddle,” she remarked cheerfully. “They have come
to arrest the wrong man and now it appears that he isn’t there.”
“Don’t talk to me for a few minutes, Marion, dear,” said I. “There is
something behind this and I want to think what it can be. I have seen
that woman somewhere, I feel certain. Now where was it?”
I cudgelled my brains for some time without succeeding in recovering
the recollections connected with her. I re-visualized the face that I
had seen through the glass, with its deep-set, hollow eyes and strong,
sharply-sloping eyebrows, and tried to connect it with some person
whom I had seen, but in vain. And then in a flash it came to me. She
was the widow whom I had noticed at the inquest. The identification,
indeed, was not very complete, for the veil that she had worn on that
occasion had considerably obscured her features. But I had no doubt
that I was right, for her present appearance agreed in all that I
could see with that of the woman at the inquest.
The next question was, Who could she be? Her association with the
bottle-nosed man connected her in some way with what Thorndyke would
have called “the case”; for that man, whoever he was, had certainly
been shadowing me. Then her presence at the inquest had now a sinister
suggestiveness. She would seem to have been there to watch
developments on behalf of others. Could she be a relative of Mrs.
Morris? A certain faint resemblance seemed to support this idea. As to
the man, I gave him up. Evidently there were several persons concerned
in this crime, but I knew too little about the circumstances to be
able to make even a profitable guess. Having reached this
unsatisfactory conclusion, I turned, a little irritably, to Marion,
exclaiming:
“I can make nothing of it. Let us get on with some work to pass the
time.”
Accordingly we began, in a half-hearted way, upon Polton’s two moulds.
But the presence of the two detectives was disturbing, especially
when, having finished the exterior, they brought their pails and
ladders inside and took up their station at the lobby window. We
struggled on for a time; but when, about noon, Miss Boler made her
appearance with a basket of provisions and a couple of bottles of
wine, we abandoned the attempt, and occupied ourselves in tidying up
and laying a table.
“Don’t you think, Marion,” I said, as we sat down to lunch (having
provided for the needs of the two “painters,” who lunched in the
lobby), “that it would be best for you and Arabella to go home before
any fuss begins?”
“Whatever Miss Marion thinks,” Arabella interposed firmly, “I am not
going home. I came down expressly to see this villain captured, and
here I stay until he is safely in custody.”
“And I,” said Marion, “am going to stay with Arabella. You know why,
Stephen. I couldn’t bear to go away and leave you here after what you
have told me. We shall be quite safe in here.”
“Well,” I temporized, seeing plainly that they had made up their
minds, “you must keep the door bolted until the business is over.”
“As to that,” said Miss Boler, “we shall be guided by circumstances;”
and from this ambiguous position neither she nor Marion would budge.
Shortly after lunch I received a further shock of surprise. In answer
to a loud single knock, I hurried out to open the door. A tradesman’s
van had drawn up at the kerb, and two men stood on the threshold, one
of them holding a good-sized parcel. I stared at the latter in
astonishment, for I recognized him instantly as the second shadower of
the Dartmouth Park Hill adventure; but before I could make any comment
both men entered—with the curt explanation “police business”—and the
last-comer shut the door, when I heard the van drive off.
“I am Detective-sergeant Porter,” the stranger explained. “You know
what I am here for, of course.”
“Yes,” I replied, and, turning to the other man, I said: “I think I
have seen you before. Are you a police-officer, too?”
My acquaintance grinned. “Retired Detective-sergeant,” he explained,
“name of Barber. At present employed by Dr. Thorndyke. I think I have
seen you before, Sir,” and he grinned again, somewhat more broadly.
“I should like to know how you were employed when I saw you last,”
said I. But here Sergeant Porter interposed: “Better leave
explanations till later, Sir. You’ve got a back gate, I think.”
“Yes,” said one of the “painters.” “At the bottom of the garden. It
opens on an alley that leads into the next road—Chilton-road.”
“Can we get into the garden through the studio?” the Sergeant asked;
and on my answering in the affirmative, he requested permission to
inspect the rear premises. I conducted both men to the back door and
let them out into the garden, where they passed out at the back gate
to reconnoitre the alley. In a minute or two they returned; and they
had hardly re-entered the studio when another knock at the door
announced more visitors. They turned out to be Thorndyke and
Superintendent Miller: of whom the latter inquired of the senior
painter:
“Is everything in going order, Jenks?”
“Yes, Sir,” was the reply. “The man is there all right. Dr. Gray saw
him; but I should mention, Sir, that he doesn’t think it’s the right
man.”
“The devil he doesn’t!” exclaimed Miller, looking at me uneasily, and
then glancing at Thorndyke.
“That man isn’t Morris,” said I. “He is that red-nosed man whom I told
you about. You remember.”
“I remember,” Thorndyke replied calmly. “Well, I suppose we shall have
to content ourselves with the red-nosed man;” upon which ex-Sergeant
Barber’s countenance became wreathed in smiles and the Superintendent
looked relieved.
“Are all the arrangements complete, Sergeant?” Miller inquired,
turning to Sergeant Porter.
“Yes, sir,” the latter replied. “Inspector Follett has got some local
men, who know the neighbourhood well, posted in the rear watching the
back garden, and there are some uniformed men waiting round both the
corners to stop him, in case he slips past us. Everything is ready,
sir.”
“Then,” said the Superintendent, “we may as well open the ball at
once. I hope it will go off quietly. It ought to. We have got enough
men on the job.”
He nodded to Sergeant Porter, who at once picked up his parcel and
went out into the garden, accompanied by Barber. Miller, Thorndyke,
and I now adjourned to the lobby window, where, with the two
painter-detectives, we established a look-out. Presently we saw the
Sergeant and Barber advancing separately on the opposite side of the
road, the latter leading and carrying the parcel. Arrived at the
house, he entered the front garden and knocked a loud single knock.
Immediately the mysterious woman appeared at the ground-floor
window—it was a bay-window—and took a long, inquisitive look at
ex-Sergeant Barber. There ensued a longish pause, during which
Sergeant Porter walked slowly past the house. Then the door opened a
very short distance—being evidently chained—and the woman appeared in
the narrow opening. Barber offered the parcel, which was much too
large to go through the opening without unchaining the door, and
appeared to be giving explanations. But the woman evidently denied all
knowledge of it, and, having refused to receive it, tried to shut the
door, into the opening of which Barber had inserted his foot; but he
withdrew it somewhat hastily as a coal-hammer descended, and before he
could recover himself the door shut with a bang and was immediately
bolted.
The ball was opened, as Miller had expressed it, and the developments
followed with a bewildering rapidity that far outpaced any possible
description.
The Sergeant returning, and joining Barber, the two men were about to
force the ground-floor window, when pistol shots and police whistles
from the rear announced a new field of operations. At once, Miller
opened the studio door and sallied forth, with the two detectives and
Thorndyke; and when I had called out to Marion to bolt the door, I
followed, shutting it after me. Meanwhile, from the rear of the
opposite houses came a confused noise of police-whistles, barking dogs
and women’s voices, with an occasional report. Following three rapid
pistol-shots there came a brief interval; then, suddenly, the door of
a house farther down the street burst open and the fugitive rushed
out, wild-eyed and terrified, his white face contrasting most
singularly with his vividly-red nose. Instantly, the two detectives
and Miller started in pursuit, followed by the Sergeant and Barber;
but the man ran like a hare and was speedily drawing ahead when
suddenly a party of constables appeared from a side turning and
blocked the road. The fugitive zigzagged and made as if he would try
to dodge between them, flinging away his empty pistol and drawing out
another. The detectives and Miller were close on him, when in an
instant he turned, and with extraordinary agility, avoided them. Then,
as the two Sergeants bore down on him, he fired at them at close
range, stopping them both, though neither actually fell. Again he
outran his pursuers, racing down the road towards us, yelling like a
maniac and firing his pistol wildly at Thorndyke and me. And suddenly
my left leg doubled up and I fell heavily to the ground nearly
opposite the studio door.
The fall confused me for a moment and as I lay, half-dazed, I was
horrified to see Marion dart out of the studio. In an instant she was
kneeling by my side with her arm around my neck. “Stephen! Oh,
Stephen, darling!” she sobbed, and gazed into my face with eyes full
of terror and affection, oblivious of everything but my peril. I
besought her to go back, and struggled to get out my pistol, for the
man, still gaining on his pursuers, was now rapidly approaching. He
had flung away his second pistol and had drawn a large knife; and as
he bore down on us, mad with rage and terror, he gibbered and grinned
like a wild cat.
When he was but a couple of dozen paces away, I saw Thorndyke raise
his pistol and take a careful aim. But before he had time to fire, a
most singular diversion occurred. From the open door of the studio,
Miss Boler emerged, swinging a massive stool with amazing ease. The
man, whose eyes were fixed on me and Marion, did not observe her until
she was within a few paces of him; when, gathering all her strength,
she hurled the heavy stool with almost incredible force. It struck him
below the knees, knocking his feet from under him, and he fell with a
sort of dive or half-somersault, falling with the hand that grasped
the knife under him.
He made no attempt to rise, but lay with slightly twitching limbs but
otherwise motionless. Miss Boler stalked up to him and stood looking
down on him with grim interest until Thorndyke, still holding his
pistol, stooped, and, grasping one arm, gently turned him over. Then
we could see the handle of the knife sticking out from his chest near
the right shoulder.
“Ha!” said Thorndyke. “Bad luck to the last. It must have gone through
the arch of the aorta. But perhaps it is just as well.”
He rose, and stepping across to where I sat, supported by Marion and
still nursing my pistol, bent over me with an anxious face.
“What is it, Gray?” he asked. “Not a fracture, I hope?”
“I don’t think so,” I replied. “Damaged muscle and perhaps nerve. It
is all numb at present, but it doesn’t seem to be bleeding much. I
think I could hobble if you would help me up.”
He shook his head and beckoned to a couple of constables, with whose
aid he carried me into the studio and deposited me on the sofa.
Immediately afterwards the two wounded officers were brought in, and I
was relieved to hear that neither of them was dangerously hurt, though
the Sergeant had a fractured arm and Barber a flesh wound of the chest
and a cracked rib. The ladies having been politely ejected into the
garden, Thorndyke examined the various injuries and applied temporary
dressings, producing the materials from a very business-like-looking
bag which he had providently brought with him. While he was thus
engaged three constables entered carrying the corpse, which, with a
few words of apology, they deposited on the floor by the side of the
sofa.
I looked down at the ill-omened figure with lively curiosity, and
especially was I impressed and puzzled by the very singular appearance
of the face. Its general colour was of that waxen pallor
characteristic of the faces of the dead, particularly of those who
have died from hemorrhage. But the nose and the acne patches remained
unchanged. Indeed, their colour seemed intensified, for their vivid
red “stared” from the surrounding white like the painted patches on a
clown’s face.
The mystery was solved when, the surgical business being concluded,
Barber came and seated himself on the edge of the sofa.
“Masterly make-up, that,” said he, nodding at the corpse. “Looks queer
enough now, but when he was alive you couldn’t spot it even in
daylight.”
“Make-up!” I exclaimed. “I didn’t know you could make-up off the
stage.”
“You can’t wear a celluloid nose off the stage, or a tie-on beard,” he
replied. “But when it is done as well as this—a touch or two of
nose-paste or toupée-paste, tinted carefully with grease-paint and
finished up with powder—it’s hard to spot. These experts in make-up
are a holy terror to the police.”
“Did you know that he was made-up?” I asked, looking at Thorndyke.
“I inferred that he was,” the latter replied, “and so did Sergeant
Barber. But now we had better see what his natural appearance is.”
He stooped over the corpse, and with a small ivory paper-knife scraped
from the end of the nose and the parts adjacent a layer of coloured
plastic material about the consistency of modelling-wax. Then with
vaseline and cotton-wool he cleaned away the red pigment until the
pallid skin showed unsullied.
“Why, it _is_ Morris after all!” I exclaimed. “It is perfectly
incredible; and you seemed to remove such a very small quantity of
paste, too! I wouldn’t have believed that it would make such a
change.”
“Not after that very instructive demonstration that Miss D’Arblay gave
us with the clay and the plaster mask?” he asked with a smile.
I smiled sheepishly in return. “I told you I was a fool, Sir;” and
then, as a new idea burst upon me, I asked: “And that other man—the
hook-nosed man?”
“Morris—that is to say, Bendelow,” he replied, “with a different, more
exaggerated, make-up.”
I was pondering with profound relief on this answer when one of the
painter-detectives entered in search of the Superintendent.
“We got into the house from the back, Sir,” he reported. “The woman is
dead. We found her lying on the bed in the first-floor front; and we
found a tumbler half-full of water and this by the bedside.”
He exhibited a small, wide-mouthed bottle labelled “Potassium
Cyanide,” which the Superintendent took from him.
“I will come and look over the house presently,” the latter said.
“Don’t let anybody in, and let me know when the cabs are here.”
“There are two here now, sir,” the detective announced, “and they have
sent down three wheeled stretchers.”
“One cab will carry our two casualties, and I expect the doctor will
want the other. The bodies can be put on two of the stretchers, but
you had better send the woman here for Dr. Gray to see.”
The detective saluted and retired, and in a few minutes a stretcher
dismounted from its carriage was borne in by two constables and placed
on the floor beside Morris’ corpse. But even now, prepared as I was,
and knowing who the new arrival must be, I looked doubtfully at the
pitiful effigy that lay before me so limp and passive that but an hour
since had been a strong, courageous, resourceful woman. Not until the
white wig, the cap, and the spectacles had been removed, the heavy
eyebrows detached with spirit, and the dark pigment cleaned away from
the eyelids, could I say with certainty that this was the corpse of
Mrs. Morris.
“Well, Doctor,” said the Superintendent, when the wounded and the dead
had been borne away and we were alone in the studio, “you have done
your part to a finish, as usual, but ours is a bit of a failure. I
_should_ have liked to bring that fellow to trial.”
“I sympathize with you,” replied Thorndyke. “The gallows ought to have
had him. But yet I am not sure that what has happened is not all for
the best. The evidence in both cases—the D’Arblay and the Van Zellen
murders—is entirely circumstantial and extremely intricate. That is
not good evidence for a jury. A conviction would not have been a
certainty either here or in America, and an acquittal would have been
a disaster that I don’t dare to think of. No, Miller, I think that, on
the whole, I am satisfied, and I think that you ought to be, too.”
“I suppose I ought,” Miller conceded, “but it _would_ have been a
triumph to put him in the dock, after he had been written off as dead
and cremated. However, we must take things as we find them; and now I
had better go and look over that house.”
With a friendly nod to me, he took himself off, and Thorndyke went off
to notify the ladies that the intruders had departed.
As he returned with them I heard Marion cross-examining him with
regard to my injuries and listened anxiously for his report.
“So far as I can see, Miss D’Arblay,” he answered, “the damage is
confined to one or two muscles. If so, there will be no permanent
disablement and he should soon be quite well again. But he will want
proper surgical treatment without delay. I propose to take him
straight to our hospital if he agrees.”
“Miss Boler and I were hoping,” said Marion, “that we might have the
privilege of nursing him at our house.”
“That is very good of you,” said Thorndyke, “and perhaps you might
look after him during his convalescence. But for the present he needs
skilled surgical treatment. If it should not be necessary for him to
stay in the hospital after the wound has been attended to, it would be
best for him to occupy one of the spare bedrooms at my chambers, where
he can be seen daily by the surgeon, and I can keep an eye on him.
Come,” he added coaxingly, “let us make a compromise. You or Miss
Boler shall come to the Temple every day for as long as you please and
do what nursing is necessary. There is a spare room, of which you can
take possession; and as to your work here, Polton will give you any
help that he can. How will that do?”
Marion accepted the offer gratefully (with my concurrence), but begged
to be allowed to accompany me to the hospital.
“That was what I was going to suggest,” said Thorndyke. “The cab will
hold the four of us, and the sooner we start the better.”
Our preparations were very soon made. Then the door was opened, I was
assisted out through a lane of hungry-eyed spectators, held at bay by
two constables, and deposited in the cab; and when the studio had been
locked up, we drove off, leaving the neighbourhood to settle down to
its normal condition.