Giuseppe Raspiegli of Rome knew all about Signor's travels ere that gentleman crossed the frontier of Italy. When an old man in a Prince Albert coat, casually visited his shop and inquired about a perforated Bahama stamp the Rome philatelist just as casually answered that the little thing was somewhere in Italy and that he could procure it if--if Signor was serious enough. Signor answered that he wanted to see it, but when he heard the price Raspiegli asked, he threw his hands up. It was double the amount he ever dared to ask for his Bahama. * * * * * For weeks at a stretch Signor secluded himself in his little attic room overlooking the Tiber. For hours and hours he looked at his own Bahama, he had believed so many years to be unique. 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. "You will probably yet make a profit on it," Raspiegli disturbed the old man's contemplation. "A profit! A profit! I did not buy it to make a profit. I only wanted that my own Bahama should be the only one of its kind." As he spoke he lit a match and before Raspiegli had time to interfere the ashes of the other "Bahama" mixed with the dust on the floor. For Signor things had to be unique to be worth keeping. THE NEWLY-RICH GOLDSTEINS The Goldsteins were destined for light work and comfort. "Middle Class" was stamped on their faces and radiated from their speech and movements. Every stitch of clothing proclaimed that they belonged to the happy, contended-with-what-God-gives middle class.