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