A couple of old newspapers. A moth-eaten pennant. A bulky letter that never had been opened.
Sutton tossed it on top of the rest of the litter he had taken from the trunk, then hesitated, put out his hand and picked it up again.
That stamp looked queer. The color, for one thing.
Memory ticked within his brain and he saw the stamp again, saw it as he had seen it when a lad…not the stamp, itself, of course, but the illustration of it in a catalogue.
He bent above the letter and caught a sudden, gasping breath.
The stamp was old, incredibly old…incredibly old and worth…good Lord, how much was it worth?
He tried to make out the postmark, but it was so faint with time that it blurred before his eyes.
He got up slowly and carried the letter to the table, bent above it, puzzling out the town name.
BRIDGEP—, WIS.
Bridgeport, probably. And WIS.? Some old state, perhaps. Some political division lost in the mist of time.