"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.
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