“That fan is interesting enough,” was the doctor’s reply.  “When a Samurai, one of the warrior caste Japanese, was invited to the house of a doubtful friend, he carried this fan as a weapon of defence.  Compelled to leave his two swords behind a screen, he could close this fighting machine and parry the attack of his hospitable enemy until he reached his swords.  Just try it and see what a formidable weapon it would prove.”  He took up the fan, shut it, and swung it over his head.

“Look out for the bottles!” cried Effinghame.

“Never fear, old chap.  And did you notice the head?”

“That’s what most puzzled me.”

“No wonder.  I too was puzzled—­until I found the solution.  And it took me some years—­yes, all the time you were in Paris learning how to paint and live.”  He paused, and his face became gloomy.

“Well—­well?”

“There is no well.  It’s a damned bad fan, that iron one, and I don’t mind saying so to you.”

“Superstitious—­you!  Where is your Haeckel, your Wundt, your Weismann?  Do you still believe in the infallibility of the germ-plasm?  Has the fan brought you ill-luck?  The fact is, Arn, ever since your return from China you’ve been a strange bird!” It was Effinghame’s turn to laugh.

“Don’t say another word.”  The doctor was vivacious in a moment and poured out wine.  They both lighted cigars.  Slowly puffing, Arn took up the fan and spread it open.

“See here!  That head, as you must have noticed, is not Japanese.  It’s Jewish.  Do you recall the head of Judas painted by Da Vinci in his Last Supper?  Now isn’t this old scoundrel’s the exact duplicate—­well, if not exact, there is a very strong resemblance.”  Effinghame looked and nodded.

“And what the devil is it doing on a fan of the Samurai?  It’s not caprice.  No Japanese artist ever painted in that style or ever expressed that type.  I thought the thing out and came to the conclusion—­”

“Yes—­yes!  What conclusion?” eagerly interrupted his listener.

“To the conclusion that I could never unravel such a knotty question alone.”  Effinghame was disappointed.

“So I had recourse to an ally—­to the fan itself,” blandly added Arn, as he poured out more wine.

“The fan?”

“Precisely—­the fan.  I studied it from tip to tip, as our bird-shooting friends say, and I, at last, discovered more than a picture.  You know I am an Orientalist.  When I was at Johns Hopkins University I attended the classes of the erudite Blumenfeld, and what you can’t learn from him—­need I say any more?  One evening I held the fan in front of a vivid electric light and at once noticed serried lines.  These I deciphered after a long time.  Another surprise.  They were Chinese characters of a remotely early date—­Heaven knows how many dynasties back!  Now what, you will ask, is Chinese doing on a Samurai fighting fan!  I don’t know.  I never shall know.  But I do know that this fan contains on one side of it the most extraordinary revelation ever vouchsafed mankind, particularly Christian mankind.”  Excited by his own words, Arn arose.