a smuggler.

Killigrew took him before the Collector of the Port, laid the matter
before him frankly, paid the duty, and took the gems over to Tiffany's
expert, who informed him that these sapphires were the originals from
which his daughter's had been copied, and were far more valuable.
Twenty-five thousand would not purchase such a string of sapphires
these days. All like a nice, calm fairy-story for children.

Immediately upon being informed of his wealth, Thomas became filled
with a truly magnanimous idea. But of that, later.

A week later, to be exact.

Around and upon the terrace of the Killigrew villa, with its cool white
marble and fresh green strip of lawn, illumined at each end by scarlet
poppy-beds, lay the bright beauty of the morning. The sea below was
still, the air between, and the heavens above, since no cloud moved up
or down the misty blue horizons. Leaning over the baluster was a young
woman. She too was still; and her eyes, directed toward the sea,
contemplative apparently but introspective in truth, divided in their
deeps the blue of the heavens and the green of the sea. Presently a
sound broke the hush. It came from a neat little brown shoe. Tap-tap,
tap-tap. To the observer of infinite details, a foot is often more
expressive than lips or eyes. Moods must find some outlet. One can
nearly perfectly control the face and hands; the foot is least guarded.

The young man by the nearest poppy-bed plucked a great scarlet flower.
Luckily for him the head gardener was not about. Then slowly he walked
over to the young woman. The little foot became still.

"I am sailing day after to-morrow for Rio Janeiro," he said. He laid
on the broad marble top of the baluster a little chamois-bag. "Will
you have these reset and wear them for me?"

"The sapphires? Why, you mustn't let them go out of the family. They
are wonderful heirlooms."

"I do not intend to let them go out of the family," he replied quietly.

Kitty stirred the bag with her fingers. She did not raise her eyes
from it. In fact, she would have found it difficult to look elsewhere
just then.

"Will you wear them?"

"Yes."

"And some day will you call me Thomas?"

"Yes . . . When you return."

Somewhere back I spoke of Magic Carpets we writer chaps have. A thing
of flimsy dreams and fancies! But I forgot the millionaire's. His is
real, made of legal-tenders woven intricately, wonderfully. Does he
wish a palace, a