The silence was unbroken except for the harsh cries of the hawk, sailing low now in great circles over the lake. The sun flashed on his broad, burnished wings as he stooped; Gethryn fancied he could see his evil little eyes; finally the bird rose and dwindled away, lost against the mountainside.

He was roused from his reverie by angry voices.

"Cochon! Kerl! Menteur!" cried someone.

The other voice remonstrated with a snarl.

"Bah!" cried the first, "you lie!"

"Alsatians," thought Rex; "what horrible French!"

The snarling began again, but gradually lapsed into whining. Rex looked about him.

The quarreling seemed to come from a small room which opened out of the hotel restaurant. Windows gave from it over the front, but the blinds were down.

"No! No! I tell you! Not one sou! Starve? I hope you will!" cried the first voice, and a stamp set some bottles and glasses jingling.

"Alsatians and Jews!" thought Rex. One voice was unpleasantly familiar to him, and he wondered if Mr Blumenthal spoke French as he did English. Deciding with a careless smile that of course he did, Rex ceased to think of him, not feeling any curiosity to go and see with whom his late fellow-lodger might be quarreling. He sat and watched instead, as he lounged in the sunshine, some smart carriages whirling past, their horses stepping high, the lackeys muffled from the mountain air in winter furs, crests on the panels.

An adjutant in green, with a great flutter of white cock's feathers from his chapeau, sitting up on the box of an equipage, accompanied by flunkies in the royal blue and white of Bavaria, was a more agreeable object to contemplate than Mr Blumenthal, and Gethryn felt as much personal connection with the Prince Regent hurrying home to Munich, from his little hunting visit to the emperor of Austria, as with the wrangling Jews behind the close-drawn blinds of the coffee-room at his back.

The sun was slowly declining. Rex rose and idled into the smoking-room. It was deserted but for the clerk at his desk, a railed enclosure, one side of which opened into the smoking-room, the other side into the hall. Across the hall was a door with "Cafe — Restaurant," in gilt letters above it. Rex did not enter the cafe; he sat and dreamed in the empty smoking-room over his cigarette.

But it was lively in the cafe, in spite of the waning season. A good many of the tables were occupied. At one of them sat the three unchaperoned Miss Dashleighs, in company with three solemn, high-shouldered young officers, enjoying something in tall, slender tumblers which looked hot and smelled spicy. At another table Mr Everett Tweeler and Mrs Tweeler were alternately scolding and stuffing Master Irving Tweeler, who expressed in impassioned tones a desire for tarts.

"Ur—r—ving!" remonstrated Mr Tweeler.

"Dahling!" argued Mrs Tweeler. "If oo eats too many 'ittle cakies then oo tant go home to Salem on the puffy, puffy choo-choo boat."

Old Sir Griffin Damby overheard and snorted.

When Master Tweeler secured his tarts, Sir Griffin blessed the meal with a hearty "damn!"

He did not care for Master Tweeler's nightly stomach aches, but their rooms adjoined. When "Ur—r—ving" reached unmolested for his fourth, Sir Griffin rose violently, and muttering, "Change me room, begad!" waddled down to the door, glaring aggressively at the occupants of the various tables. Near the exit a half suppressed squeal caused him to swing round. He had stepped squarely on the toe of a meager individual, who now sat nursing his foot in bitter dejection.

"Pardon — " began Sir Griffin, then stopped and glared at the sallow-faced person.

Sir Griffin stared hard at the man he had stepped on, and at his female companion.

"Damn it!" he cried. "Keep your feet out of the way, do you hear?" puffed his cheeks, squared his shoulders and snorted himself out of the cafe.

The yellow-faced man was livid with rage.

"Don't be a fool, Mannie," whispered the woman; "don't make a row — do you know who that is?"

"He's an English hog," spluttered the man with an oath; "he's a cursed hog of an Englishman!"

"Yes, and he knows us. He was at Monaco a few summers ago. Don't forget who turned us out of the Casino."

Emanuel Pick turned a shade more sallow and sank back in his seat.

Neither spoke again for some moments. Presently the woman began to stir the bits of lemon and ice in her empty tumbler. Pick watched her sulkily.

"You always take the most expensive drinks. Why can't you order coffee, as others do?" he snarled.

She glanced at him. "Jew," she sneered.

"All right; only wait! I've come to the end of my rope. I've got just money enough left to get back to Paris — "

"You lie, Mannie!"

He paid no attention to this compliment, but lighted a cigar and dropped the match on the floor, grinding it under his heel.

"You have ten thousand francs today! You lie if you say you have not."

Mr Pick softly dropped his eyelids.

"That is for me, in case of need. I will need it too, very soon!"

His companion glared at him and bit her lip.

"If you and I are to remain dear friends," continued Mr Pick, "we must manage to raise money, somehow. You know that as well as I do."

Still she said nothing, but kept her eyes on his face. He glanced up and looked away uneasily.

"I have seen my uncle again. He knows all about your sister and the American. He says it is only because of him that she refuses the handsome offer."

The woman's face grew tigerish, and she nodded rapidly, muttering, "Ah! yes! Mais oui! the American. I do not forget him!"

"My dear uncle thinks it is our fault that your sister refuses to forget him, which is more to the purpose," sneered Pick. "He says you did not press that offer he made Yvonne with any skill, else she would never have refused it again — that makes four times," he added. "Four times she has refused an establishment and — "

"Pst! what are you raising your voice for?" hissed the woman. "And how is it my fault?" she went on.

"I don't say it is. I know better — who could wish more than we that your sister should become the mistress of my dear rich uncle? But when I tried to tell him just now that we had done our best, he raved at me. He has guessed somehow that they mean to marry. I did not tell him that we too had guessed it. But he said I knew it and was concealing it from him. I asked him for a little money to go on with. Curse him, he would not lend me a sou! Said he never would again — curse him!"

There was a silence while Pick smoked on. The woman did not smoke too because she had no cigarette, and Pick did not offer her any. Presently he spoke again.

"Yes, you certainly are an expensive luxury, under the circumstances. And since you have so mismanaged your fool of a sister's affair, I don't see how the circumstances can improve."

She watched him. "And the ten thousand francs? You will throw me off and enjoy them at your ease?"

He cringed at her tone. "Not enjoy — without you — "

"No," she said coolly, "for I shall kill you."

Mr Pick smiled uncomfortably. "That would please the American," he said, trying to jest, but his hand trembled as he touched the stem of his cigar-holder to shake off the ashes.

A sudden thought leaped into her face. "Why not please — me — instead?" she whispered.

Their eyes met. Her face was hard and bold — his, cowardly and ghastly. She clenched her hands and leaned forward; her voice was scarcely audible. Mr Pick dropped his oily black head and listened.

"He turned me out of his box at the Opera; he struck you — do you hear? he kicked you!"

The Jew's face grew chalky.

"Today he stands between you and your uncle, you and wealth, you and me! Do you understand? Cowards are stupid. You claim Spanish blood. But Spanish blood does not forget insults. Is yours only the blood of a Spanish Jew? Bah! Must I talk? You saw him? He is here. Alive. And he kicked you. And he stands between you and riches, you and me, you and — life!"

They sat silent, she holding him fascinated with her little black eyes. His jaw fallen, the expression of his loose mouth was horrible. Suddenly she thrust her face close to his. Her eyes burned and the blood surged through the distended veins under the cracking rouge. Her lips formed the word, "Tonight!"

Without a word he crept from his seat and followed her out of the room by a side door.

Gethryn, lounging in the smoking-room meanwhile, was listening with delight to the bellowing of Sir Griffin Damby, who stood at the clerk's desk in the hall.

"Don't contradict me!" he roared — the weak-eyed clerk had not dreamed of doing so — "Don't you contradict me! I tell you it's the same man!"

"But Excellence," entreated the clerk, "we do not know — "

"What! Don't know! Don't I tell you?"

"We will telegraph to Paris — "

"Telegraph to hell! Where's my man? Here! Dawson! Do you remember that infernal Jew at Monaco? He's here. He's in there!" jerking an angry thumb at the cafe door. "Keep him in sight till the police come for him. If he says anything, kick him into the lake."

Dawson bowed.

The clerk tried to say that he would telegraph instantly, but Sir Griffin barked in his face and snorted his way down the hall, followed by the valet.

Rex, laughing, threw down his cigarette and sauntered over to the clerk.

"Whom does the Englishman want kicked out?"

The clerk made a polite gesture, asking Rex to wait until he had finished telegraphing. At that moment the postillion's horn heralded the coming of the mail coach, and that meant the speedy arrival of the last western train. Rex forgot Sir Griffin and strolled over to the post office to watch the distribution of the letters and to get his own.

A great deal of flopping and pounding seemed to be required as a preliminary to postal distribution. First the mail bags seemed to be dragged all over the floor, then came a long series of thumps while the letters were stamped, finally the slide was raised and a face the color of underdone pie crust, with little angry eyes, appeared. The owner had a new and ingenious insult for each person who presented himself. The Tweelers were utterly routed and went away not knowing whether there were any letters for them or not. Several valets and ladies' maids exchanged lively but ineffectual compliments with the face in the post office window. Then came Sir Griffin. Rex looked on with interest. What the ill-natured brute behind the grating said, Rex couldn't hear, but Sir Griffin burst out with a roar, "Damnation!" that made everybody jump. Then he stuck his head as far as he could get it in at the little window and shouted — in fluent German, awfully pronounced — "Here! You! It's enough that you're so stupid you don't know what you're about. Don't you try to be impudent too! Hand me those letters!" The official bully handed them over without a word.

Rex took advantage of the lull and stepped to the window. "Any letters for Mr Gethryn?"

"How you spell him?" Rex spelled him.

"Yet once again!" demanded the intelligent person. Rex wrote it in English and in German script.

"From Trauerbach — yes?"

"Yes."

The man went away, looked through two ledgers, sent for another, made out several sets of blanks, and finally came back to the window, but said nothing.

"Well?" said Rex, pleasantly.

"Well," said the man.

"Anything for me?"

"Nothing for you."

"Kindly look again," said Rex. "I know there are letters for me."

In about ten minutes the man appeared again.

"Well?" said Gethryn.

"Well," said the man.

"Nothing for me?"

"Something." And with ostentatious delay he produced three letters and a newspaper, which Rex took, restraining an impulse to knock him down. After all, the temptation was not very great, presenting itself more as an act of justice than as a personal satisfaction. The truth was, all day long a great gentleness tinged with melancholy had rested on Gethryn's spirit. Nothing seemed to matter very much. And whatever engaged his attention for a moment, it was only for a moment, and then his thoughts returned where they had been all day.

Yvonne, Yvonne! She had not been out of his thoughts since he rose that morning. In a few steps he reached his room and read his letters by the waning daylight.

The first began:

My Darling — in three more days I shall stand before a Paris audience. I am not one bit nervous. I am perfectly happy. Yesterday at rehearsal the orchestra applauded and Madame Bordier kissed me. Some very droll things happened. Achilles was intoxicated and chased Ajax the Less with a stick. Ajax fled into my dressing room, and although I was not there I told Achilles afterward that I would never forgive him. Then he wept.

The letter ran on for a page more of lively gossip and then, with a sudden change, ended:

But why do I write these foolish things to you? Ah! you know it is because I am too happy! too happy! and I cannot say what is in my heart. I dare not. It is too soon. I dare not!

If it is that I am happy, who but you knows the reason? And now listen to my little secret. I pray for you, yes, every morning and every evening. And for myself too — now.

God forgives. It is in my faith. Oh! my husband, we will be good!

Thy Yvonne

Gethryn's eyes blurred on the page and he sat a long time, very still, not offering to open his remaining letters. Presently he raised his head and looked into the street. It was dusk, and the lamps along the lake side were lighted. He had to light his candles to read by.

The next was from Braith — a short note.

Everything is ready, Rex, your old studio cleaned and dusted until you would not know it.

I have kept the key always by me, and no one but myself has ever entered it since you left.

I will meet you at the station — and when you are really here I shall begin to live again.

Au revoir, Braith

It seemed as if Gethryn would never get on with his correspondence. He sat and held this letter as he had done the other. A deep melancholy possessed him. He did not care to move. At last, impatiently, he tore the third envelope. It contained a long letter from Clifford.

"My blessed boy," it said.

We learn from Papa Braith that you will be here before long, but the old chump won't tell when. He intends to meet you all alone at the station, and wishes to dispense with a gang and a brass band. We think that's deuced selfish. You are our prodigal as well as his, and we are considering several plans for getting even with Pa.

One is to tell you all the news before he has a chance. And I will begin at once.

Thaxton has gone home, and opened a studio in New York. The Colossus has grown two more inches and hates to hear me mention the freak museums in the Bowery. Carleton is a hubby, and wifey is English and captivating. Rowden told me one day he was going to get married too. When I asked her name he said he didn't know. Someone with red hair.

When I remarked that he was a little in that way himself, he said yes, he knew it, and he intended to found a race of that kind, to be known as the Red Rowdens. Elliott's brindle died, and we sold ours. We now keep two Russian bloodhounds. When you come to my room, knock first, for "Baby" doesn't like to be startled.

Braith has kept your family together, in your old studio. The parrot and the raven are two old fiends and will live forever. Mrs Gummidge periodically sheds litters of kittens, to Braith's indignation. He gives them to the concierge who sells them at a high price, I don't know for what purpose; I have two of the Gummidge children. The bull pups are pups no longer, but they are beauties and no mistake. All the same, wait until you see "Baby."

I met Yvonne in the Louvre last week. I'm glad you are all over that affair, for she's going to be married, she told me. She looked prettier than ever, and as happy as she was pretty. She was with old Bordier of the Fauvette, and his wife, and — think of this! she's coming out in Belle Helene! Well! I'm glad she's all right, for she was too nice to go the usual way.

Poor little Bulfinch shot himself in the Bois last June. He had delirium tremens. Poor little chap!

There's a Miss Dene here, who knows you. Braith has met her. She's a beauty, he says, and she's also a stunning girl, possessing manners, and morals, and dignity, and character, and religion and all that you and I have not, my son. Braith says she isn't too good for you when you are at your best; but we know better, Reggy; any good girl is too good for the likes of us.

Hasten to my arms, Reginald! You will find them at No. 640 Rue Notre Dame des Champs, chez,

Foxhall Clifford, Esq.

Leaving Clifford's letter and the newspapers on the table, Rex took his hat, put out the light, and went down to the street. As he stood in the door, looking off at the dark lake, he folded Yvonne's letter and placed it in his breast. He held Braith's a moment more and then laid it beside hers.

The air was brisk; he buttoned his coat about him. Here and there a moonbeam touched the lapping edge of the water, or flashed out in the open stretch beyond the point of pines. High over the pines hung a cliff, blackening the water all around with fathomless shadow.

A waiter came lounging by, his hands tucked beneath his coattails. "What point is that? The one which overhangs the pines there?" asked Rex.

"Gracious sir!" said the waiter, "that is the Schicksalfels."

"Why 'Schicksal-fels'?"

"Has the gracious gentleman never heard the legend of the 'Rock of Fate'?"

"No, and on second thoughts, I don't care to hear it now. Another time. Good night!"

"Ah! the gentleman is too good! Thousand thanks! Gute Nacht, gnaediger Herr!"

Gethryn remained looking at the crags.

"They cannot be half a mile from here," he thought. "I suppose the path is good enough; if not, I can turn back. The lake will look well from there by moonlight." And he found himself moving up a little footpath which branched below the hotel.

It was pleasant, brisk walking. The air had a touch of early frost in it. Gethryn swung along at a good pace, pulling his cap down and fastening the last button of his coat. The trees threw long shadows across the path, hiding it from view, except where the moonlight fell white on the moist gravel. The moon herself was past the full and not very bright; a film of mist was drawing over the sky. Gethryn, looking up, thought of that gentle moon which once sailed ghostlike at high noon through the blue zenith among silver clouds while a boy lay beside the stream with rod and creel; and then he remembered the dear old yellow moon that used to flood the nursery with pools of light and pile strange moving shades about his bed. And then he saw, still looking up, the great white globe that hung above the frozen river, striking blue sparks from the ringing skates.

He felt lonely and a trifle homesick. For the first time in his life — he was still so young — he thought of his childhood and his boyhood as something gone beyond recall.

He had nearly reached his destination; just before him the path entered a patch of pine woods and emerged from it, shortly, upon the flat-topped rock which he was seeking. Under the first arching branches he stopped and looked back at the marred moon in the mist-covered sky.

"I am sick of this wandering," he thought. "Wane quickly! Your successor shall shine on my home: Yvonne's and mine."

And, thinking of Yvonne, he passed into the shadows which the pines cast upon the Schicksalfels.

Seventeen

Paris lay sparkling under a cold, clear sky. The brilliant streets lay coiled along the Seine and stretched glittering from bank to bank, from boulevard to boulevard; cafes, brasseries, concert halls and theaters in the yellow blaze of gas and the white and violet of electricity.

It was not late, but people who entered the lobby of the Theater Fauvette turned away before the placard "Standing room only."

Somewhere in the city a bell sounded the hour, and with the last stroke the drop curtain fell on the first act of "La Belle Helene."

It fell amidst a whirlwind of applause, in which the orchestra led.

The old leader of the violins shook his head, however. He had been there twenty years, and he had never before heard of such singing in comic opera.

"No, no," he said, "she can't stay here. Dame! she sings!"

Madame Bordier was pale and happy; her good husband was weak with joy. The members of the troupe had not yet had time to be jealous and they, too, applauded.

As for the house, it was not only conquered, it was wild with enthusiasm. The lobbies were thronged.

Braith ran up against Rowden and Elliott.

"By Jove!" they cried, with one voice, "who'd have thought the little girl had all that in her? I say, Braith, does Rex know about her? When is he coming?"

"Rex doesn't know and doesn't care. Rex is cured," said Braith. "And he's coming next week. Where's Clifford?" he added, to make a diversion.

"Clifford promised to meet us here. He'll be along soon."

The pair went out for refreshments and Braith returned to his seat.

The wait between the acts proved longer than was agreeable, and people grumbled. The machinery would not work, and two heavy scenes had to be shifted by hand. Good Monsieur Bordier flew about the stage in a delirium of excitement. No one would have recognized him for the eminently reasonable being he appeared in private life. He called the stage hands "Prussian pigs!" and "Spanish cattle!" and expressed his intention to dismiss the whole force tomorrow.

Yvonne, already dressed, stood at the door of her room, looking along the alley of dusty scenery to where a warm glow revealed the close proximity of the footlights. There was considerable unprofessional confusion, and not a little skylarking going on among the company, who took advantage of the temporary interruption.

Yvonne stood in the door of her dressing room and dreamed, seeing nothing.

Her pretty figure was draped in a Grecian tunic of creamy white, bordered with gold; her soft, dark hair was gathered in a simple knot.

Presently she turned and entered her dressing room, closing the door. Then she sat down before the mirror, her chin resting on her hands, her eyes fixed on her reflected eyes, a faint smile curving her lips.

"Oh! you happy girl!" she thought. "You happy, happy girl! And just a little frightened, for tomorrow he will come. And when he says — for he will say it — 'Yvonne must we wait?' I shall tell him, No! take me now if you will!"

Without a knock the door burst open. A rush of music from the orchestra came in. Yvonne thought "So they have begun at last!" The same moment she rose with a faint, heartsick cry. Her sister closed the door and fastened it, shutting out all sound but that of her terrible voice. Yvonne blanched as she looked on that malignant face. With a sudden faintness she leaned back, pressing one hand to her heart.

"You received my letter?" said the woman.

Yvonne did not answer. Her sister stamped and came nearer. "Speak!" she cried.

Yvonne shrank and trembled, but kept her resolute eyes on the cruel eyes approaching hers.

"Shall I tear an answer from you?" said the woman, always coming nearer. "Do you think I will wait your pleasure, now?"

No answer.

"He is here — Mr Blumenthal; he is waiting for you. You dare not refuse him again! You will come with us now, after the opera. Do you hear? You will come. There is no more time. It must be now. I told you there would be time, but there is none — none!"

Yvonne's maid knocked at the door and called:

"Mademoiselle, c'est l'heuer!"

"Answer!" hissed the woman.

Yvonne, speechless, holding both hands to her heart, kept her eyes on her sister's face. That face grew ashen; the eyes had the blank glare of a tiger's; she sprang up to Yvonne and grasped her by the wrists.

"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle! c'est l'heure!" called the maid, shaking the door.

"Fool!" hissed her sister, "you think you will marry the American!"

"Mademoiselle Descartes! mais Mademoiselle Descartes!" cried Monsieur's voice without.

"Let me go!" panted Yvonne, struggling wildly.

"Go!" screamed the woman, "go, and sing! You cannot marry him! He is dead!" and she struck the girl with her clenched fist.

The door, torn open, crashed behind her and immediately swung back again to admit Madame.

"My child! my child! What is it? What ails you? Quick, or it will be too late! Ah! try, try, my child!"

She was in tears of despair.

Taking her beseeching hand, Yvonne moved toward the stage.

"Oui, chere Madame!" she said.

The chorus swelled around her.

Oh! reine en ce jour!

rose, fell, ebbed away, and left her standing alone.

She heard a voice — "Tell me, Venus — " but she hardly knew it for her own. It was all dark before her eyes — while the mad chorus of Kings went on, "For us, what joy!" — thundering away along the wings.

"Fear Calchas!"

"Seize him!"

"Let Calchas fear!"

And then she began to sing — to sing as she had never sung before. Sweet, thrilling, her voice poured forth into the crowded auditorium. The people sat spellbound. There was a moment of silence; no one offered to applaud. And then she began again.

Oui c'est un reve, Un reve doux d'amour —

She faltered —

La nuit lui prete son mystere, Il doit finir avec le jour —

the voice broke. Men were standing up in the audience. One cried out:

"Il — doit — finir — "

The music clashed in one great discord.

Why did the stage reel under her? What was the shouting?

Her heavy, dark hair fell down about her little white face as she sank on her knees, and covered her as she lay her slender length along the stage.

The orchestra and the audience sprang to their feet. The great blank curtain rattled to the ground. A whirlwind swept over the house. Monsieur Bordier stepped before the curtain.

"My friends!" he began, but his voice failed, and he only added, "C'est fini!"

With hardly a word the audience moved to the exits. But Braith, turning to the right, made his way through a long, low passage and strode toward a little stage door. It was flung open and a man hurried past him.

"Monsieur!" called Braith. "Monsieur!"

But Monsieur Bordier was crying like a child, and kept on his way, without answering.

The narrow corridor was now filled with hurrying, excited figures in gauze and tinsel, sham armor, and painted faces. They pressed Braith back, but he struggled and fought his way to the door.

A Sergeant de Ville shouldered through the crowd. He was dragging a woman along by the arm. Another policeman came behind, urging her forward. Somehow she slipped from them and sank, cowering against the wall. Braith's eyes met hers. She cowered still lower.

A slender, sallow man had been quietly slipping through the throng. A red-faced fellow touched him on the shoulder.

"Pardon! I think this is Mr Emanuel Pick."

"No!" stammered the man, and started to run.

Braith blocked his way. The red-faced detective was at his side.

"So, you are Mr Emanuel Pick!"

"No!" gasped the other.

"He lies! He lies!" yelled the woman, from the floor.

The Jew reeled back and, with a piercing scream, tore at his handcuffed wrists. Braith whispered to the detective:

"What has the woman done? What is the charge?"

"Charge? There are a dozen. The last is murder."

The woman had fainted and they carried her away. The light fell a moment on the Jew's livid face, the next Braith stood under the dark porch of the empty theater. The confusion was all at the stage entrance. Here, in front, the deserted street was white and black and silent under the electric lamps. All the lonelier for two wretched gamins, counting their dirty sous and draggled newspapers.

When they saw Braith they started for him; one was ahead in the race, but the other gained on him, reached him, dealt him a merciless blow, and panted up to Braith.

The defeated one, crying bitterly, gathered up his scattered papers from the gutter.

"Curse you, Rigaud! you hound!" he cried, in a passion of tears. "Curse you, son of a murderer!"

The first gamin whipped out a paper and thrust it toward Braith.

"Buy it, Monsieur!" he whined, "the last edition, full account of the Boulangist riot this morning; burning of the Prussian flags; explosion on a warship; murder in Germany, discovered by an English Milord — "

Braith was walking fast; the gamin ran by his side for a moment, but soon gave it up. Braith walked faster and faster; he was almost running when he reached his own door. There was a light in his window. He rushed up the stairs and into his room.

Clifford was sitting there, his head in his hands. Braith touched him, trying to speak lightly.

"Are you asleep, old man?"

Clifford raised a colorless face to his.

"What is it? Can't you speak?"

But Clifford only pointed to a crumpled telegram lying on the table, and hid his face again as Braith raised the paper to the light.

*

The End In the Quarter was first published in 1894 and the text is in the public domain. The transcription was done by William McClain, 2003.

A printed version of this book is available from [4]Sattre Press http://itq.sattre-press.com/