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." "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, "tomorrow morning, Frank." "Bernard Shaw is lunching with me tomorrow," I replied, "at the Cafe Royal." He made an impatient movement of his head.