Falder. [After a moment] I remember thinking of Mr. Cokeson’s face.

Frome.  Of Mr. Cokeson’s face!  Had that any connection with what you were doing?

Falder.  No, Sir.

Frome.  Was that in the office, before you ran out?

Falder.  Yes, and while I was running.

Frome.  And that lasted till the cashier said:  “Will you have gold or notes?”

Falder.  Yes, and then I seemed to come to myself—­and it was too late.

Frome.  Thank you.  That closes the evidence for the defence, my lord.

     The judge nods, and Falder goes back to his seat in the dock.

Frome. [Gathering up notes] If it please your lordship—­Gentlemen of the Jury,—­My friend in cross-examination has shown a disposition to sneer at the defence which has been set up in this case, and I am free to admit that nothing I can say will move you, if the evidence has not already convinced you that the prisoner committed this act in a moment when to all practical intents and purposes he was not responsible for his actions; a moment of such mental and moral vacuity, arising from the violent emotional agitation under which he had been suffering, as to amount to temporary madness.  My friend has alluded to the “romantic glamour” with which I have sought to invest this case.  Gentlemen, I have done nothing of the kind.  I have merely shown you the background of “life”—­that palpitating life which, believe me—­whatever my friend may say—­always lies behind the commission of a crime.  Now gentlemen, we live in a highly, civilized age, and the sight of brutal violence disturbs us in a very strange way, even when we have no personal interest in the matter.  But when we see it inflicted on a woman whom we love—­what then?  Just think of what your own feelings would have been, each of you, at the prisoner’s age; and then look at him.  Well! he is hardly the comfortable, shall we say bucolic, person likely to contemplate with equanimity marks of gross violence on a woman to whom he was devotedly attached.  Yes, gentlemen, look at him!  He has not a strong face; but neither has he a vicious face.  He is just the sort of man who would easily become the prey of his emotions.  You have heard the description of his eyes.  My friend may laugh at the word “funny”—­I think it better describes the peculiar uncanny look of those who are strained to breaking-point than any other word which could have been used.  I don’t pretend, mind you, that his mental irresponsibility—­was more than a flash of darkness, in which all sense of proportion became lost; but to contend, that, just as a man who destroys himself at such a moment may be, and often is, absolved from the stigma attaching to the crime of self-murder, so he may, and frequently does, commit other crimes while in this irresponsible condition, and that he may as justly be acquitted of criminal