“The man’s manner told me that he was the real enemy.  ’I suppose you mean that beautiful letter of mine to Lord Alfred Douglas,’ I said.  ’If you had not been so foolish as to send a copy of it to Mr. Beerbohm Tree, I should have been glad to have paid you a large sum for it, as I think it is one of the best I ever wrote.’  Allen looked at me with sulky, cunning eyes and said: 

“‘A curious construction could be put upon that letter.’

“‘No doubt, no doubt,’ I replied lightly; ’art is not intelligible to the criminal classes.’  He looked me in the face defiantly and said: 

“‘A man has offered me L60 for it.’

“‘You should take the offer,’ I said gravely; ’L60 is a great price.  I myself have never received such a large sum for any prose work of that length.  But I am glad to find that there is someone in England who will pay such a large sum for a letter of mine.  I don’t know why you come to me,’ I added, rising, ‘you should sell the letter at once.’

“Of course, Frank, as I spoke my body seemed empty with fear.  The letter could be misunderstood, and I have so many envious enemies; but I felt that there was nothing else for it but bluff.  As I went to the door Allen rose too, and said that the man who had offered him the money was out of town.  I turned to him and said: 

“‘He will no doubt return, and I don’t care for the letter at all.’

“At this Allen changed his manner, said he was very poor, he hadn’t a penny in the world, and had spent a lot trying to find me and tell me about the letter.  I told him I did not mind relieving his distress, and gave him half a sovereign, assuring him at the same time that the letter would shortly be published as a sonnet in a delightful magazine.  I went to the door with him, and he walked away.  I closed the door; but didn’t shut it at once, for suddenly I heard a policeman’s step coming softly towards my house—­pad, pad!  A dreadful moment, then he passed by.  I went into the room again all shaken, wondering whether I had done right, whether Allen would hawk the letter about—­a thousand vague apprehensions.

“Suddenly a knock at the street door.  My heart was in my mouth, still I went and opened it:  a man named Cliburn was there.

“‘I have come to you with a letter of Allen’s.’

“‘I cannot be bothered any more,’ I cried, ’about that letter; I don’t care twopence about it.  Let him do what he likes with it.’

“To my astonishment Cliburn said: 

“‘Allen has asked me to give it back to you,’ and he produced it.

“‘Why does he give it back to me?’ I asked carelessly.

“’He says you were kind to him and that it is no use trying to “rent” you; you only laugh at us.’

“I looked at the letter; it was very dirty, and I said: 

“’I think it is unpardonable that better care should not have been taken of a manuscript of mine.’

“He said he was sorry; but it had been in many hands.  I took the letter up casually: