This was a delicate question, and one that Florentin dreaded, for it might raise prejudices that nothing would destroy. However, he must reply, for what he would not tell himself others would reveal; an investigation on this point was too easy. “With another business man, Monsieur Savoureux, Rue de la Victoire, where I was not obliged to work in the evening. I stayed there about three months, and then went to America.” “Why?” “Because, when I began to study seriously, I found that my studies had been neglected too long to make it possible for me to take them up again. I had forgotten nearly all I had learned. I should, without doubt, fail in my examination, and I should only begin the law too late. I left France for America, where I hoped to find a good situation.” “How long since your return?” “Three weeks.” “And you went to see Caffie?” “Yes.” “What for?” “To ask him for a recommendation to replace the one he gave me, which I had lost.” “It was the day of the crime?” “Yes.” “At what time?” “I reached his house about a quarter to three, and I left about half-past three.” “Did he give you the certificate for which you asked?” “Yes; here it is.” And, taking it from his pocket, he presented it to the judge. It was a paper saying that, during the time that M. Florentin Cormier was his clerk, Caffie was entirely satisfied with him; with his work, as with his accuracy and probity. “And you did not return to him during the evening?” the judge asked. “Why should I return? I had obtained what I desired.” “Well, did you or did you not return?” “I did not return to him.” “Do you remember what you did on leaving Caffie’s house?” If Florentin had indulged in the smallest illusion about his appearance before the judge, the manner of conducting the interview would have destroyed it. It was not a witness who was being questioned, it was a culprit. He had not to enlighten the justice, he had to defend himself. “Perfectly,” he said. “It is not so long ago. On leaving the Rue Sainte-Anne, as I had nothing to do, I went down to the quays, and looked at the old books from the Pont Royale to the Institute; but at this moment a heavy shower came on, and I returned to the Batignolles, where I remained with my mother.” “What time was it when you reached your mother’s house?” “A few minutes after five.” “Can you not say exactly?” “About a quarter past five, a few minutes more or less.” “And you did not go out again?” “No.” “Did any one call at your mother’s after you arrived there?” “No one. My sister came in at seven o’clock, as usual, when she returned from her lesson.” “Before you went up to your rooms did you speak with any of the other lodgers?” “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.