<<^<^«^<<^t^ <^ <^ c«^ c^c<^t^ AMANULLAH learnt, too despondent to eat. He was going to meet the anger of his brother, always feared, and he was not yet certain of the reception he would get from the loyal people of Kandahar. The police chief and the young Indian Civil Service official came to talk. " You are not allowed on this train," they said. " I thought not." " There will be a lovely row," they said. "I suspected it." " We shall see at Quetta." So we ran on through the day and the evening. The train toiled up the long hills towards the snow-capped peaks of the mountains. We were in Baluchistan now. The end of the strange journey was near. At every stop, there was a little company of people off the plat- forms, informed of the arrival of Inayatullah by the bazaar gossip that flits from village to village and along the railway lines of the East, faster than the trains. Then, in the dawn, we had pulled into Quetta station, clean and cold and orderly, and two English officials came into my carriage and blustered me out of it* " There will be a row about this," they said* " So there ought to be," I replied. But in my pocket, ready typed in the train, there rested a message describing the curious events which led up to this curious journey, I watched the train pull out of Quetta station towards the little Frontier halt of Chaman, once beflagged and decorated for Amanullah on his triumphant start to the European trip, now bare and inhospitable. The British officials conducted Inayatullah from the train. Shepherded the women and children along the platform* Hurried them into waiting motor cars* Some of the women were waiting. Inayatullah wore the sad 286