Raspiegli demanded such an enormous sum for his stamp! It was in much better condition than the one Signor owned. Time had been kindlier to its color and tissue. But the price was an enormous one. It was almost all he possessed. It meant ruin.
The old philatelist could neither eat nor sleep. His limbs grew even more quarrelsome with one another and his bent shoulders now frequently entered the argument.
Raspiegli was made of adamant. He had fixed his price and would not relent.
He had sized up his customer and knew that sooner or later the little man would open his wallet and pay.
Meanwhile Signor starved himself to death. When he had finally decided to pay the price to Raspiegli he had just enough left to carry him home on the next boat.
That last night in the attic room overlooking the Tiber was one of great suffering. He cried. He tore his hair. He bit his nails.
But early morning found him at the door of Raspiegli, money in hand.
"It is all I possess Maestro Raspiegli," he muttered.
"Which shows you are a real philatelist," the Italian answered suavely as he counted the money.
From the deepest recess of the safe he brought out the little square of carmine paper. Signor looked at it again. No doubt it was in a better state of preservation than his own, but he felt no warmth, no intimacy, no kinship with it.