_ CHAPTER XXVI
It remains for me, then, to relate how Thomas escaped that arm of the law equally as relentless as that of the police--the customs. Perfectly innocent of intent, he was none the less 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 yacht, a rare jewel? Whiz! There you are, sir. No flowery flourishes; the cold, hard, beautiful facts of reality. Killigrew had his Magic Carpet, and he spread it out and stood on it as he and Mrs. Killigrew viewed the pair out on the terrace. (The millionaire can sometimes wish happiness with his Carpet.)
"Molly, I'm going to send Thomas down to Rio. He'll be worth exactly fifteen hundred the year . . . for years. But I'm going to give him five thousand the first year, ten thousand the next, and twenty thereafter . . . if he sticks. And I think he will. He'll never be any the wiser." He paused tantalizingly.
"Well?" demanded Mrs. Killigrew, smiling.
"Well, neither will Kitty."
[THE END]
Harold MacGrath's Novel: Voice in the Fog
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