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.
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