"Oh, impossible!" he answered, decisively. "Lily had no silly school-girl entanglements. She told me so. And she loved me alone—loved me as devotedly as I loved her—I am perfectly certain of that. No, Mrs. Vance, you are mistaken. The theory of the jury is the only one I can accept. The fatal deed must have been committed under a temporary aberration of mind."
The sudden entrance of Mr. Lawrence checked the mournful expression that rose to her lips.
As the two men shook hands in silence, each noted the ravages grief had made in the other.
Mr. Lawrence's portly form was bowed feebly, his genial face was seamed with lines of grief and care, while premature silver threads shone amid his chestnut-brown hair.
The ghastly pallor of Lancelot Darling, his wild eyes, his trembling hands, attested how maddening and soul-harrowing was his despair.
"Lance, my poor boy, you have been ill," said the banker, in a gentle tone of sympathy.
"Yes, I have been ill," said Lancelot, brokenly; then almost crushing the banker's hand in his strong, unconscious grasp, he broke out wildly: "Mr. Lawrence, I have come here to beg a favor of you."
"Name it," said Mr. Lawrence, kindly.
"I want the key of your vault. I want to see my Lily's face once more," he answered, in an imploring tone.
"Would it be well? Would it be wise?" asked the other in a tone of surprise and pain.