But I was not to have peace for long. Only a few mornings after this, two policemen turned up, with a message from the commissaire of police, that he wished to see me at once. As I had imagined that he had ceased worrying about my passport, I followed them, wondering what he wanted. He was seated in a tailor’s shop in the bazaar, a fat man, with a cunning look in his little blue eyes, and his mouth concealed under a heavy yellow moustache. He spoke nothing but Turkish and Arabic, and as I reached him, addressed me in the former. “Have you a passport?” he asked; “if so, why have you not submitted it to me?” “Because so far you have not asked for it, nor done anything except hint at the illegal objects of my visit here; had you asked reasonably for it I would have shown it.” [Sidenote: A POLICE ENQUIRY] “Well, I wish to know what you are doing here--why you came, why you do not go, where you came from, your name, your----” “These,” I broke in, “are known to everyone in Sulaimania but yourself. I came here to do business, and have done some, and would have done more had the place here been in a normal state of quietness. I came from Kirkuk, and as you were with the same caravan you should have known that; and as at Kirkuk my passport was seen and stamped, I am not going to volunteer details as to whence I came there, for it is not your business. As to why I do not go, I am hoping to leave very soon for Bagdad--as soon as your bold Turkish army can induce the Hamavands to leave a road open.” This kind of conversation in the open bazaar, and among a crowd of Kurds, half of whom understood, he had not expected, and appeared a little hurt at a tone he was not apparently used to. “Well,” he said, “at any rate I must see your passport, so you had better fetch it.” So, accompanied by a policeman I went back to the house and got my English passport, and the Turkish travelling passport issued to all who journey in that country. By now it had received ill-use, and the name was illegible, as well as particulars of religion and birthplace. These I brought to him there, and he inspected the travelling passport, and after humming and hawing, said: “Yes, this is very well, but the essential thing is an identification passport. Where is it?” I showed him the Foreign Office passport, which also interested the Kurds round about. “This,” he said, “is not a passport, it is merely a permit from your Government to travel.” “Well,” I said, “can you read it?” a remark that elicited guffaws from the listeners. “No,” he answered, “of course I cannot.” “Then,” I said, “you must either take my word or suspend the enquiry, you cannot blame me because you do not know English. I have stated that I am a British subject, and there is my British passport, with the visé of the Turkish Consul in London on the back, and there is my name, ‘Ghulam Husain,’ upon it,” and I pointed to where my own name was written in English.