ught 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.

"Effinghame, my dear fellow, I know you have read Renan. If Renan had
seen the communication on this iron fan, he would have never written his
life of the Messiah." His eyes blazed.

"Why, what do you mean?"

"I mean that it might have been a life of Judas Iscariot."

"Good God, man, are you joking?" ejaculated Effinghame.

"I mean," sternly pursued Arn, "that if De Quincey had studied this
identical fan, the opium-eater would have composed another gorgeous
rhetorical plea for the man preelected to betray his Saviour,