“I am not what I was once,” said Dana Da, “and I must take the money because I am poor.  To what Englishman shall I send it?”

“Send a Sending to Lone Sahib,” said the Englishman, naming a man who had been most bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from the Teacup Creed.  Dana Da laughed and nodded.

“I could have chosen no better man myself,” said he.  “I will see that he finds the Sending about his path and about his bed.”

He lay down on the hearthrug, turned up the whites of his eyes, shivered all over, and began to snort.  This was magic, or opium, or the Sending, or all three.  When he opened his eyes he vowed that the Sending had started upon the warpath, and was at that moment flying up to the town where Lone Sahib lives.

“Give me my ten rupees,” said Dana Da, wearily, “and write a letter to Lone Sahib, telling him, and all who believe with him, that you and a friend are using a power greater than theirs.  They will see that you are speaking the truth.”

He departed unsteadily, with the promise of some more rupees if anything came of the Sending.

The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, couched in what he remembered of the terminology of the creed.  He wrote:  “I also, in the days of what you held to be my backsliding, have obtained enlightenment, and with enlightenment has come power.”  Then he grew so deeply mysterious that the recipient of the letter could make neither head nor tail of it, and was proportionately impressed; for he fancied that his friend had become a “fifth rounder.”  When a man is a “fifth rounder” he can do more than Slade and Houdin combined.

Lone Sahib read the letter in five different fashions, and was beginning a sixth interpretation, when his bearer dashed in with the news that there was a cat on the bed.  Now, if there was one thing that Lone Sahib hated more than another it was a cat.  He rated the bearer for not turning it out of the house.  The bearer said that he was afraid.  All the doors of the bedroom had been shut throughout the morning, and no real cat could possibly have entered the room.  He would prefer not to meddle with the creature.

Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and there, on the pillow of his bed, sprawled and whimpered a wee white kitten, not a jumpsome, frisky little beast, but a sluglike crawler with its eyes barely opened and its paws lacking strength or direction—­a kitten that ought to have been in a basket with its mamma.  Lone Sahib caught it by the scruff of its neck, handed it over to the sweeper to be drowned, and fined the bearer four annas.

That evening, as he was reading in his room, he fancied that he saw something moving about on the hearthrug, outside the circle of light from his reading lamp.  When the thing began to myowl, he realized that it was a kitten—­a wee white kitten, nearly blind and very miserable.  He was seriously angry, and spoke bitterly to his bearer, who said that there was no kitten in the room when he brought in the lamp, and real kittens of tender age generally had mother cats in attendance.