“At our shop.”
“Well, to be sure! Some careless wretch didn’t rake out the embers, I warrant.”
“Shall we be burnt, Martin?” asked Lucy, timorously.
“Of course not, child,” Susan interposed. “It’s far enough off, and the wind blows it away from us, thank goodness. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, what with fires, and men who won’t come in to their vittles, and dark doings under the stairs.”
“What do you mean?” Martin asked.
“Why, look at this: what do you make of that?”
She held up a large brass button, to which were attached a few threads.
“Well?” said Martin, wondering.
“It’s not well: it’s a mystery. That’s a button from a man’s coat, and I found it in the cupboard under the stairs. I went in with a candle to take down the bed that Indian boy slept in, and tidy up, and there was the button a-shining on the floor.”
“What of that?”