"No."
There was a pause, and Florentin felt the judge's eyes fixed on him with an aggravating persistency. It seemed as if this look, which enveloped him from head to foot, wished to penetrate his inmost thoughts.
"Another thing," said the judge. "You did not lose a trousers' button while you were with Caffie?"
Florentin expected this question, and for some time he had considered what answer he should make to it. To deny was impossible. It would be easy to convict him of a fib, for the fact of the question being asked was sufficient to say there was proof that the button was his. He must, then, confess the truth, grave as it might be.
"Yes," he said, "and this is how—"
He related in detail the story of the bundle of papers placed on the highest shelf of the cases, his slipping on the ladder, and the loss of the button, which he did not discover until he was in the street.
The judge opened a drawer and took from it a small box, from which he took a button that he handed to Florentin.
"Is that it?" he asked.
Florentin looked at it.
"It is difficult for me to answer," he said, finally; "one button resembles another."