What I had expected had happened. The office had been raided, and was now in the hands of the police. In answer to my inquiring look, the detective requested me to come in and speak to the inspector. In the ground-floor room three or four Italian comrades were gathered together. The one-eyed baker, Beppe, was addressing the others in a loud voice; as far as I could gather from the few words I caught, he was relating some prison experiences. The group looked unusually animated and jolly; the incident evidently reminded them of their own country. As soon as they saw me enter they interrupted their talk, and Beppe stepped forward to shake hands, but the officer of the law interposed: "Now, you fellows, stay there; the young lady is going to speak to the inspector." I told Beppe I should soon be down, and he retired, pulling a wry face at the detective, and making some observation to his friends which made them all roar with laughter. Upstairs a scene of wild disorder greeted my eye. Four or five policemen were turning over heaps of old papers, searching through dusty cupboards and shelves; heaps of pie lay about the floor--evidently some one had put a foot through the form of type ready set for the forthcoming issue of the _Tocsin_; on the "composing surface" stood a formidable array of pint pots, with the contents of which the men in blue had been refreshing themselves. On a packing-case in the middle of the room sat Short, his billycock hat set far back on his long, greasy hair, smoking a clay pipe with imperturbable calm; whilst little M'Dermott, spry as ever, watched the proceedings, pulling faces at the policemen behind their backs, and "kidding" them with extraordinary tales as to the fearful explosive qualities of certain ginger-beer bottles which were ranged on a shelf. At the editorial table, which was generally covered with a litter of proofs and manuscript, more or less greasy and jammy, owing to our habit of feeding in the office, sat the inspector, going through the heaps of papers, pamphlets, and manuscript articles which were submitted to his scrutiny by his satellites. I took in all this at a glance, and walking straight up to the inspector, I demanded of him an explanation of this unwarranted invasion of the office. His first answer was an interrogation. "You are Isabel Meredith, are you not?" This opened up an explanation which was brief and conclusive. The inspector showed me a search-warrant, duly signed by a magistrate, and another warrant for the arrest of Kosinski, and informed me that the office had been opened to him by Short, who had represented himself as one of the proprietors. The primary object of the search was to see if Kosinski, who was wanted by the police in connection with the Madrid outrage, were not on the premises, and also to see if there were no incriminating documents or explosive materials concealed there. "And have you found anything very alarming?" I inquired sarcastically.