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."
"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?"
"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.
"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.