It is a lovely place and only lacks you. Do go to Salisbury
first. Always with undying love,

Yours,

OSCAR."

* * * * *

This letter startled me; "slim-gilt" and the "madness of kissing" were
calculated to give one pause; but after all, I thought, it may be
merely an artist's letter, half pose, half passionate admiration.
Another thought struck me.

"But how did such a letter," I cried, "ever get into the hands of a
blackmailer?"

"I don't know," he replied, shrugging his shoulders. "Lord Alfred
Douglas is very careless and inconceivably bold. You should know him,
Frank; he's a delightful poet."

"But how did he come to know a creature like Wood?" I persisted.

"How can I tell, Frank," he answered a little shortly; and I let the
matter drop, though it left in me a certain doubt, an uncomfortable
suspicion.

The scandal grew from hour to hour, and the tide of hatred rose in
surges.

One day I was lunching at the Savoy, and while talking to the head
waiter, Cesari, who afterwards managed the Elysee Palace Hotel in
Paris, I thought I saw Oscar and Douglas go out together. Being a
little short-sighted, I asked:

"Isn't that Mr. Oscar Wilde?"

"Yes," said Cesari, "and Lord Alfred Douglas. We wish they would not
come here; it does us a lot of harm."

"How do you mean?" I asked sharply.

"Some people don't like them," the quick Italian answered immediately.

"Oscar Wilde," I remarked casually, "is a great friend of mine," but
the super-subtle Italian was already warned.

"A clever writer, I believe," he said, smiling in bland acquiescence.

This incident gave me warning, strengthened again in me the exact
apprehension and suspicion which the Douglas letter had bred. Oscar I
knew was too self-centred, went about too continually with admirers to
have any understanding of popular feeling. He would be the last man
to realize how fiercely hate, malice and envy were raging against him.
I wanted to warn him; but hardly knew how to do it effectively and
without offence: I made up my mind to keep my eyes open and watch an
opportunity.

A little later I gave a dinner at the Savoy and asked him to come. He
was delightful, his vivacious gaiety as exhilarating as wine. But he
was more like a Roman Emperor than ever: he had grown fat: he ate and
drank too much; not that he was intoxicated, but he became flushed,
and in spite of his gay and genial talk he affected me a