I would produce it as my trump-card.
Next second, however, I held my breath, and I think I must have turned pale.

My pocket was empty! My wallet had been stolen! Entirely and helplessly I had fallen into the hands of the tyrant of the Czar.
His own personal interest would be to consign me to a living tomb in that grim fortress of Kajana, the horrors of which were unspeakable.

I had seen enough during my inspection of the Russian prisons as a journalist to know that there, in strangled Finland, I should not be treated with the same consideration or humanity as in Petersburg or Warsaw.

The Governor-General consigned me to Kajana as a "political," which was synonymous with a sentence of death in those damp, dark _oubliettes_ beneath the water-dungeons every whit as awful as those of the Paris Bastile.
We faced each other, and I looked straight into his gray, bony face, and answered in a tone of defiance: "You are Governor-General, it is true, but you will, I think, reflect before you consign me, an Englishman, to prison without trial.

I know full well that the English are hated by Russia, yet I assure you that in London we entertain no love for your nation or its methods." "Yes," he laughed, "you are quite right.