“Solicitors live on quarrels.  Of course they want a case that will bring hundreds if not thousands of pounds into their pockets.  Besides they like the fight.  They will have all the kudos of it and the fun, and you will pay the piper.  For God’s sake don’t be led into it:  that way madness lies.”

“But, Frank,” he objected weakly, “how can I sit down under such an insult.  I must do something.”

“That’s another story,” I replied.  “Let us by all means weigh what is to be done.  But let us begin by putting the law-courts out of the question.  Don’t forget that you are challenged to mortal combat.  Let us consider how the challenge should be met, but we won’t fight under Queensberry rules because Queensberry happens to be the aggressor.  Don’t forget that if you lose and Queensberry goes free, everyone will hold that you have been guilty of nameless vice.  Put the law courts out of your head.  Whatever else you do, you must not bring an action for criminal libel against Queensberry.  You are sure to lose it; you haven’t a dog’s chance, and the English despise the beaten—­vae victis!  Don’t commit suicide.”

Nothing was determined when the time came to part.

This conversation took place, I believe, on the Friday or Saturday.  I spent the whole of Sunday trying to find out what was known about Oscar Wilde and what would be brought up against him.  I wanted to know too how he was regarded in an ordinary middle-class English home.

My investigations had appalling results.  Everyone assumed that Oscar Wilde was guilty of the worst that had ever been alleged against him; the very people who received him in their houses condemned him pitilessly and, as I approached the fountain-head of information, the charges 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.”