“It is not Doctor Saniel who directs the search of the police, or who inspires it,” replied Florentin.  “His opinion does not produce a criminal, while the button can—­at least for those who believe in the struggle; and between the two the police will not hesitate.

“Already the newspapers laugh at them for not having discovered the assassin, who has rejoined all the others they have let escape.  They must follow the track they have started on, and this track—­”

He lowered his voice: 

“It will lead them here.”

“To do that they must pass by the Avenue de Clichy, and that seems unlikely.”

“It is the possible that torments me, and not the unlikely, and you cannot but recognize that what I fear is possible.  I was at Caffies the day of the crime.  I lost there a button torn off by violence.  This button picked up by the police proves, according to them, the criminality of the one who lost it.  They will find that I am the one—­”

“They will not find you.”

“Let us admit that they do find me.  How should I defend myself?”

“By proving that you were not in the Rue Sainte-Anne between five and six o’clock, since you were here.”

“And what witnesses will prove this alibi?  I have only one—­mamma.  What is the testimony of a mother worth in favor of her son in such circumstances?”

“You will have that of the doctor, affirming that there was no struggle, and consequently no button torn off.”

“Affirming, but carrying no proof to support his theory; the opinion of one doctor, which the opinion of another doctor may refute and destroy.  And then, to prove that there was no struggle; Doctor Saniel will say that Caffie was surprised.  Who could surprise Caffie?  To open Caffies door when the clerk was away, it was necessary to ring first, and then to knock three times in a peculiar way.  No stranger could know that, and who could know it better than I?”

Step by step Phillis defended the ground against her brother; but little by little the confidence which at first sustained her weakened.  With Saniel she was brave.  Between her brother and mother, in this room that had witnessed their fears, not daring to speak loud, she was downcast, and let herself be overcome by their anxieties.

“Truly,” she said, “it seems as if we were guilty and not innocent.”

“And while we are tormenting ourselves, the criminal, probably, in perfect safety laughs at the police investigations; he had not thought of this button; chance throws it in his way.  Luck is for him, and against us—­once more.”

This was the plaint that was often on Florentin’s lips.  Although he had never been a gambler—­and for sufficient reason—­in his eyes everything was decided by luck.  There are those who are born under a lucky star, others under an unlucky one.  There are those who, in the battle of life, receive knocks without being discouraged, because they expect something the next day, as there are those who become discouraged because they expect nothing, and know by experience that tomorrow will be for them what today is, what yesterday was.  And Florentin was one of these.