the young men he spoke of in the
box? Would he be able to do that? He talked of Taylor as "the pivot of
the case," and gibed at the prosecution for not putting Taylor in the
box. Would he put Taylor in the box? And why, if he had such witnesses
at his beck and call, should he lay stress on the flimsy, weak
evidence to be drawn from passages in books and poems and letters? One
thing was clear: if he was able to put any of the young men in the box
about whom he had examined Oscar, Oscar was ruined. Even if he rested
his defence on the letters and poems he'd win and Oscar would be
discredited, for already it was clear that no jury would give Oscar
Wilde a verdict against a father trying to protect his son. The issue
had narrowed down to terrible straits: would it be utter ruin to Oscar
or merely loss of the case and reputation? We had only sixteen hours
to wait; they seemed to me to hold the last hope.

I drove to Tite Street, hoping to see Oscar. I was convinced that
Carson had important witnesses at his command, and that the outcome of
the case would be disastrous. Why should not Oscar even now, this very
evening, cross to Calais, leaving a letter for his counsel and the
court abandoning the idiotic prosecution.

The house at Tite Street seemed deserted. For some time no one
answered my knocking and ringing, and then a man-servant simply told
me that Mr. Wilde was not in: he did not know whether Mr. Wilde was
expected back or not; did not think he was coming back. I turned and
went home. I thought Oscar would probably say to me again:

"I can do nothing, Frank, nothing."

* * * * *

The feeling in the court next morning was good tempered, even jaunty.
The benches were filled with young barristers, all of whom had made up
their minds that the testimony would be what one of them called
"nifty." Everyone treated the case as practically over.

"But will Carson call witnesses?" I asked.

"Of course he will," they said, "but in any case Wilde does not stand
a ghost of a chance of getting a verdict against Queensberry; he was a
bally fool to bring such an action."

"The question is," said someone, "will Wilde face the music?"

My heart leapt. Perhaps he had gone, fled already to France to avoid
this dreadful, useless torture. I could see the hounds with open
mouths, dripping white fangs, and greedy eyes all closing in on the
defenceless quarry. Would the huntsman give the word? We were n