In measure as I distrusted Oscar's fighting power and admired his sweetness of
nature I took sides with him and wanted to help him. One day I heard some talk
at the Pelican Club which filled me with fear for him and quickened my resolve
to put him on his guard. I was going in just as Queensberry was coming out with
two or three of his special cronies.

"I'll do it," I heard him cry, "I'll teach the fellow to leave my son alone.
I'll not have their names coupled together."

I caught a glimpse of the thrust-out combative face and the hot grey eyes.

"What's it all about?" I asked.

"Only Queensberry," said someone, "swearing he'll stop Oscar Wilde going about
with that son of his, Alfred Douglas."

Suddenly my fears took form: as in a flash I saw Oscar, heedless and smiling,
walking along with his head in the air, and that violent combative insane
creature pouncing on him. I sat down at once and wrote begging Oscar to lunch
with me the next day alone, as I had something important to say to him. He
turned up in Park Lane, manifestly anxious, a little frightened, I think.

"What is it, Frank?"

I told him very seriously what I had heard and gave besides my impression of
Queensberry's character, and his insane pugnacity.

"What can I do, Frank?" said Oscar, showing distress and apprehension. "It's
all Bosie."