The War had sent many Americans back from Europe and Bill had returned to New York. I had had a detailed letter from him describing the stirring events of the previous December. A man introducing himself as A. Heller had called upon him at his studio and requested a copy of _Family Limitation_, pleading that he was poor, had too large a family, and was a friend of mine. Bill said he was sorry but we had agreed that I was to carry on my work independently of him, and he did not even think he had any of the pamphlets. However, the man’s story was so pathetic that he rummaged around and by chance found one in the library drawer. A few days later Bill opened the door to a gray-haired, side-whiskered six-footer who lost no time in announcing, “I am Mr. Comstock. I have a warrant for your arrest on the grounds of circulating obscene literature.” Accompanying him was the so-called Heller, who turned out to be Charles J. Bamberger, an agent of the New York Society for the Suppression of Vice. The three departed but Bill soon found himself in a restaurant instead of the police station. When he protested that he wished to consult a lawyer without delay, Comstock, between mouthfuls of lunch, offered advice. “Young man, I want to act as a brother to you. Lawyers are expensive and will only aggravate your case.” Here he patted Bill on the shoulder. “Plead guilty to this charge, and I’ll ask for a suspended sentence.” Bill’s answer was that, though he had been in Europe when the pamphlet had been written, he believed in the principles embodied in it, and that, therefore, his own principles were at stake. He would not plead guilty. “You know as well as I do, Mr. Comstock, there’s nothing obscene in that pamphlet.” “Young man, I have been in this work for twenty years, and that leaflet is the worst thing I have ever seen.” This sort of conversation went on all afternoon; Comstock even tried to bribe Bill to turn states’ evidence by disclosing my whereabouts. It was his custom to arrive at the police station so late that his prisoner could not communicate with a lawyer or bonding office and had to spend the night in jail. He could then make a statement to the papers that his captive had been unable to secure bail. When Comstock and Bill at last reached the Yorkville Police Court and the clerk had asked the latter how he wished to plead, Comstock spoke for him, “He pleads guilty.” “I do not,” expostulated Bill. “I plead not guilty.” He was arraigned and bail fixed at five hundred dollars, but he was obliged to spend thirty-six hours in jail before it could be procured. In September I had word that, after several postponements, his trial had finally come up before Justices McInerney, Herbert, and Salmon. He started to read his typewritten statement. “I admit that I broke the law, and yet I claim that in every real sense it is the law and not I that is on trial here today.”