when orange-flaming sun rays drop from the brazen sky like crackling spears and the melting asphalt picks them up again and tosses them high—that Stuart McGregor, returning from a short walk, found a large, round package in his sitting room.
"Mr. Newman sent it," his servant explained. "He said it's a rare curio, and he's sure you'll like it."
"All right."
The servant bowed, left, and closed the door, while Stuart McGregor cut the twine, unwrapped the paper, looked.
And then, suddenly, be screamed with fear; and just as suddenly, the scream of fear turned into a scream of maniacal joy.
For the thing which Newman had sent him was an African signal drum, covered with tightly stretched skin—human skin—white skin! And square in the center there was a tattoo mark—an eagle in red and blue, surmounted by a lopsided crown, and surrounded by a wavy design.
Here was the final proof that Farragut Hutchison was dead, that, forever, he was rid of his fear. In a paroxysm of joy, he picked lip the drum and clutched it to his heart.
