Turning to me, the police-master said: “The man is a fool--a beast! Does he not see that here is his opportunity to clear away those awful charges? What story can you report now? That he would not let you talk to her! Fool!” The prison-master was determined that the story of Marie Spiradonova should not be told us by her. Recognizing the futility of further parleying, I finally asked her if the letter she had succeeded in smuggling out to a friend a little while before was true in every detail. “Yes,” she answered, “in every word!” When the interview was forced to a conclusion, I extended my hand toward her. Her fingers closed round mine with a firm and certain grip. She looked me fairly in the eyes. I felt that I stood in the presence of one whose inner calm was strong, and whose motives were as noble as pure. It was Napoleon who said: “One may be deceived in a face. But in a hand never.” The hand of Spiradonova is large and full. Her fingers are slightly tapering, but strong--the hand of a strong woman. “Monsieur,” she called, as I stepped over the threshold, “take my greetings to France, to England, and to America.” * * * * * Her letter, describing the incidents which followed her shooting of Luchenovsky, is a remarkable transcript of a present-day inquisition. Here is the body of the letter: When I had fired five times at him, the escort recovered themselves. The platform was crowded with Cossacks, and there were shouts of “Strike,” “Slash,” “Fire”! and swords were drawn. When I saw this, I thought my end had come, and I decided not to give myself up alive. With this in view, I pointed my revolver at my head, when I was stunned by several blows, and fell flat on the platform. Further blows on the face and head sent a thrill of pain through my whole body. I tried to say “Leave me to be shot,” but blows fell continuously. I tried to protect my face with my hands, but they were pushed away with the butts of the rifles. Then the Cossack officers seized me by my braid of hair, lifted me up bodily, and with a great swing threw me down on the platform. I lost my senses. My hands were unclasped, and the blows fell on my face and head. Then they dragged me by one leg down the stair-case, my head bumping on each step. Then they took me again by the braid, and lifted me on to the vehicle of the _isvoschik_. They took me to a house, and the Cossack officer asked me my name. When making the attempt I had decided not to hide my name, but at this moment I forgot my name. They beat me again on the face and breast. When I was taken to the police station they undressed me and searched me, and took me to a cold cell with a wet, dirty, stone floor. At about noon or one o’clock, the assistant chief of police, Zhdanov, and a Cossack officer, Abramov, came. They stayed in my cell, with short