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.