ueer 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."

"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
bro