Effinghame waited for Dr. Arn in the study, a small chamber crowded with the contents of the universe—­so it seemed to the visitor.  There was a table unusual in size, indeed, big enough to dissect a body thereon.  It was littered with books and medical publications and was not very attractive.  The walls were covered with original drawings of famous Japanese masters, and over the fireplace hung a huge fan, dull gray in colouring, with long sandalwood spokes.  Not a noteworthy example of Japanese art, thought Effinghame, as he glanced without marked curiosity at its neutral tinting, though he could not help wondering why the cunning artificers of the East had failed to adorn the wedge-shaped surfaces of this fan with their accustomed bold and exquisite arabesques.

He impatiently paced the floor.  His friend had told him to come at nine o’clock in the evening.  It was nearly ten.  Then he began to finger things.  He fumbled the papers in the desk.  He examined the two Japanese swords—­light as ivory, keen as razors.  He stared at each of the prints, at Hokusai, Toyokimi, Kuniyoshi, Kiyonaga, Kiosai, Hiroshighe, Utamaro, Oukoyo-Ye,—­the doctor’s taste was Oriental.  And again he fell to scrutinizing the fan.  It was large, ugly, clumsy.  What possessed Arn to place such a sprawling affair over his mantel?  Tempted to touch it, he discovered that it was as silky as a young bat’s wing.  At last, his curiosity excited, he lifted it with some straining to the floor.  What puzzled him was its weight.  He felt its thin ribs, its soft, paper-like material, and his fingers chilled as they closed on the two outermost spokes.  They were of metal, whether steel or iron he could not determine.  A queer fan this, far too heavy to stir the air, and—­

Effinghame held the fan up to the light.  He had perceived a shadowy figure in a corner.  It resolved itself into a man’s head—­bearded, scowling, crowned with thorns or sunbeams.  It was probably a Krishna.  But how came such a face on a Japanese fan?  The type was Oriental, though not Mongolian, rather Semitic.  It vaguely recalled to Effinghame a head and face he had seen in a famous painting.  But where and by whom?  It wore a vile expression, the eyes mean and revengeful; there was a cruel mouth and a long, hooked, crafty nose.  The forehead was lofty, even intellectual, and bore its thorns—­yes, he was sure they were thorns—­like a conqueror.  Just then Dr. Arn entered and laughed when he saw the other struggling with the fan.

“My Samurai fan!” he exclaimed, in his accustomed frank tones; “how did you discover it so soon?”

“You’ve kept me here an hour.  I had to do something,” answered the other, sulkily.

“There, there, I apologize.  Sit down, old man.  I had a very sick patient to-night, and I feel worn out.  I’ll ring for champagne.”  They talked about trifling personal matters, when suddenly Effinghame asked:—­

“Why Samurai?  I had supposed this once belonged to some prehistoric giant who could waft it as do ladies their bamboo fans, when they brush the dust from old hearts—­as the Spanish poet sang.”