At dinner we toasted the Czar, President Roosevelt, the Duma, and ourselves. We talked politics, art, literature, travel, and epicureanism. My host was a charmingly cultivated man and he impressed me as a much more competent and conscientious administrator than other governors whom I had met. The next man below me at table was the police-master of Tamboff. Casually he asked me if I knew about Marie Spiradonova. I was startled by the abruptness with which he introduced the subject that was giving me so much concern, but I answered carelessly: “I have seen her name in the papers.” “The papers say terrible things about our treatment of her,” he added. “Newspapers are the same the world over,” I responded diplomatically. After a pause the police-master went on: “It is very hard on an official like myself. You see she is in a prison in my city, and many people--revolutionists and fanatics--believe I am responsible for all the cruelties that the newspapers say she has suffered.” “Did you know the man she shot?” I asked. “Yes--and while I cannot countenance assassination, I must say that he was a very bad man and deserved all he got.” This was the first time an official had ever been so outspoken, and I was surprised. The next thing he said fairly made my heart thump. “So many lies have been told about this girl that I wish some one who would tell the literal truth would interview her and give the facts to the world--up to now no one has seen her at all.” “I should think you could easily find some one to do that,” I replied. “No,” said he, “it is not easy to find one you can trust.” With all the nonchalance I could command I then said: “If you care to arrange for me to see her I will not only report truthfully, but I will show you my report before I publish it.” The man looked deeply grateful, and at once petitioned the governor to grant me permission to visit the much-talked-of prisoner in her cell. The governor hesitated at first, but finally consented; thus before I had really begun the difficult task of securing entrance to the prison, the whole matter seemed settled for me. In the light of the revelations that followed I can only explain the attitude of the police-master and the governor in one way. Both of them are honest men, and neither had, up to that time, I really believe, a true version of the story. No attempt was made to prejudice me against Spiradonova. “I will grant you permission to see her, and I shall be interested in learning your opinion,” was all the governor said. The police-master offered to escort us to the prison himself. I was to be accompanied by Mr. Nahum Luboshitz of London, a photographer and interpreter. The rendezvous was at the prison-gate at three o’clock in the afternoon. We arrived first, Luboshitz and I. A soldier in a long, brown coat, with a gun over his shoulder, paced slowly before the great iron gate that joined the strong walls. “Please don’t look so intently, sir,” he said approaching.