harges became more and more definite; to my horror, in the Public
Prosecutor's office, his guilt was said to be known and classified.

All "people of importance" agreed that he would lose his case against
Queensberry; "no English jury would give Oscar Wilde a verdict against
anyone," was the expert opinion.

"How unjust!" I cried.

A careless shrug was the only reply.

I returned home from my enquiries late on Sunday afternoon, and in a
few minutes Oscar called by appointment. I told him I was more
convinced than ever that he must not go on with the prosecution; he
would be certain to lose. Without beating about the bush I declared
that he had no earthly chance.

"There are letters," I said, "which are infinitely worse than your
published writings, which will be put in evidence against you."

"What letters do you mean, Frank?" he questioned. "The Wood letters to
Lord Alfred Douglas I told you about? I can explain all of them."

"You paid blackmail to Wood for letters you had written to Douglas," I
replied, "and you will not be able to explain that fact to the
satisfaction of a jury. I am told it is possible that witnesses will
be called against you. Take it from me, Oscar, you have not a ghost
of a chance."

"Tell me what you mean, Frank, for God's sake," he cried.

"I can tell you in a word," I replied; "you will lose your case. I
have promised not to say more."

I tried to persuade him by his vanity.

"You must remember," I said, "that you are a sort of standard bearer
for future generations. If you lose you will make it harder for all
writers in England; though God knows it is hard enough already; you
will put back the hands of the clock for fifty years."

I seemed almost to have persuaded him. He questioned me:

"What is the alternative, Frank, the wisest thing to do in your
opinion? Tell me that."

"You ought to go abroad," I replied, "go abroad with your wife, and
let Queensberry and his son fight out their own miserable quarrels;
they are well-matched."

"Oh, Frank," he cried, "how can I do that?"

"Sleep on it," I replied; "I am going to, and we can talk it all over
in a day or two."

"But I must know," he said wistfully, "to-morrow morning, Frank."

"Bernard Shaw is lunching with me to-morrow," I replied, "at the Cafe
Royal."

He made an impatient movement of his head.

"He usually goes early," I went on, "and if you like to come after
three o'clock we can have a talk and consider it a