“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.
“The superior officer is very severe,” he answered. “He will punish me if you look so sharply at the prison.”