“Thursday morning found us again on our way to Stonecutter Street, and as we turned into it we were aware of three gentlemen regarding us affectionately from beneath the shelter of a ladder on the off-side of Farringdon Street.  ‘That’s Simmons,’ quoth Mr. Bradlaugh, as we went in, and I shook my head solemnly, regarding ‘Simmons’ as the unsubstantial shadow of a dream.  But as the two Misses Bradlaugh and myself reached the room above the shop, a gay—­’I told you so’, from Mr. Bradlaugh downstairs, announced a visit, and in another moment Mr. Bradlaugh came up, followed by the three unknown.  ‘You know what we have come for,’ said the one in front; and no one disputed his assertion.  Detective-Sergeant R. Outram was the head officer, and he produced his warrant at Mr. Bradlaugh’s request; he was accompanied by two detective officers, Messrs. Simmons and Williams.  He was armed also with a search warrant, a most useful document, seeing that the last copy of the edition (of 5,000 copies) had been sold on the morning of the previous day, and a high pile of orders was accumulating downstairs, orders which we were unable to fulfil.  Mr. Bradlaugh told him, with a twinkle in his eye, that he was too late, but offered him every facility for searching.  A large packet of ’Text Books’—­left for that purpose by Norrish, if the truth were known—­ whose covers were the same color as those of the ‘Fruits’, attracted Mr. Outram’s attention, and he took off some of the brown paper wrapper, but found the goods unseizable.  He took one copy of the ‘Cause of Woman’, by Ben Elmy, and wandered up and down the house seeking for goods to devour, but found nothing to reward him for his energy.  Meanwhile we wrote a few telegrams and a note or two, and after about half-an-hour’s delay, we started for the police-station in Bridewell Place, arriving there at 10.25.  The officers, who showed us every courtesy and kindness consistent with the due execution of their duty, allowed Mr. Bradlaugh and myself to walk on in front, and they followed us across the roar of Fleet Street, down past Ludgate Hill Station, to the Police Office.  Here we passed into a fair-sized room, and were requested to go into a funny iron-barred place; it was a large oval railed in, with a brightly polished iron bar running round it, the door closing with a snap.  Here we stood while two officers in uniform got out their books; one of these reminded Mr. Bradlaugh of his late visits there, remarking that he supposed the ‘gentleman you were so kind to will do you the same good turn now’.  Mr. Bradlaugh dryly replied that he didn’t think so, accepting service and giving it were two very different things.  Our examination then began; names, ages, abodes, birth-places, number of children, color of hair and eyes, were all duly enrolled; then we were measured, and our heights put down; next we delivered up watches, purses, letters, keys—­in fact emptied our pockets; then I was walked off by the housekeeper into a neighboring cell and searched—­a