McCue’s house was around seventy years old, a frame structure with a bay window and an upstairs porch. The dealer sat at a computer, where Keller figured he probably did the greater portion of his business, and a radio played elevator music at low volume. It was a peaceful room, its manageable clutter somehow comforting, and Keller picked through the rest of the Norway issues and found a couple more he could use.

“How about Sweden?” McCue suggested. “I got some real nice Sweden.”

“I’m strong on Sweden,” Keller said. “At this point the only ones I need are the ones I can’t afford.”

“I know what that’s like. How about numbers one to five?”

“Surprisingly enough, I don’t have them. But then I don’t have the three skilling orange, either.” That stamp, cataloged as number 1a, was an error of color, orange instead of blue green, and was presumably unique; a specimen had changed hands a few years ago for three million dollars. Or maybe it was euros, Keller couldn’t remember.

“Haven’t got that fellow,” McCue said, “but I’ve got one through five, and the price is right.” And, when Keller raised his eyebrows, he added, “The official reprints. Mint, decent centering, and lightly hinged. Book says they’re worth $375 apiece. Want to have a look?”

He didn’t wait for an answer but sorted through a file box and came up with a stock card holding the five stamps behind a protective sheet of clear plastic.

“Take your time, look ’em over carefully. Nice, aren’t they?”

“Very nice.”

“You could fill those blank spaces with these and never need to apologize for them.”

And if he ever did acquire the originals, which seemed unlikely, the set of reprints would still deserve a place in his collection. He asked the price.

“Well, I wanted seven-fifty for the set, but I guess I’ll take six hundred. Save me the trouble of shipping ’em.”

“If it was five,” Keller said, “I wouldn’t have to think about it.”