EX-KING OF AFGHANISTAN

were singular, in that they wore no beards, and the hair
at the back of their neck was clipped short.

They wore black homburg hats. They wore black
coats. They wore black trousers of the same thick
stuff. They wore — this last is the incredible climax —
they wore black boots.

As they advanced, it was seen that they had shirts
of white showing above their black waistcoats. Some
rough hand had noosed their necks with a strand of
black, and tied it in the semblance of a knot. Their
hands stuck out from beneath the stove-pipe sleeves
of their jackets. The heavy boots clumped on the
gravel as they made their ungainly way towards us.

There were more behind. They came in a solid mass.
The gates were black with men shambling towards us,
the black homburg hats bobbing, the arms working
mechanically. It was nightmare in the sunshine.

The German blonde was sitting up erect in her park
seat. She had the wild look of disbelief in her eyes.
The band had stopped playing. The hillmen stood up
from their seats. Only the police seemed unmoved.

Behind the dreadful army came a different, glittering
band that gave away the secret. There came Amanullah,
stepping out of his Rolls, a great German police dog
on a leash in his hand. On his head glittered one of the
hats of Mr. Scott, Piccadilly. The strong, sturdy form
was clothed in a morning coat, grey trousers, yellow
gloves, soft collar of white, and a grey tie.

Then we understood- The manufacture of history is
seldom recognised at its true value at the hour of the
event. But here, if we can trace the mind of a simple
man back to its starting-point, was the course of the
idea that Amanullah the Brave had carried in his mind
from eleven countries and capitals.

A yet more elegant figure accompanied him. Was

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