Dick felt a thrill of excitement. Penwarden had not been carried away unresisting. He knew that already by the signs of struggle formerly observed. The severed button was an additional proof. No doubt it had been wrenched off in the fight—from whose coat? Not from Joe’s; his buttons were the regulation brass buttons of the Government service. Many of the fishers had steel buttons on their winter coats, and one button was like another. But it occurred to Dick that the particular garment which had lost this button might not yet have been repaired, and he wondered whether the Vicar’s search-warrant would justify Mr. Mildmay in demanding that all the blue coats in the village should be spread out on the beach for examination. The absurdity of the idea struck him at once. Of course the very garment that was wanted would not appear. But he thought of a better way—one that would arouse no suspicion, though it might prove impossible of execution. He would go down into the village and scrutinise the clothes of all the men he met. The owner of the lost button was probably one of the most active of the smugglers, and not an indoor man, so that there was some chance of meeting him in the street, on the beach, or on the jetty. He set off at once. On the way he met Sir Bevil and other horsemen riding from the Dower House, where John Trevanion had entertained them after the futile ceremony in the village. The fishers, who were not to be seen when Sir Bevil was burning to address them, now stood smoking at the corners, in front of the inn, on the jetty, and elsewhere. They appeared to be very much amused. Some of them scowled at Dick as he passed; others laughed and spat; one asked him with an oath what he was staring at. Dick was seldom in the village now, and the hostility of the folk’s attitude might have made his heart sore had he not been hardened to it. He walked along as unconcernedly as he could, standing for a few moments to watch some fishers mending nets on the beach, and lingering until their movements brought the front of their coats into view. Some coats were brown, some blue; some had steel buttons, others bone. Not one was lacking. Presently he came to the jetty, where Isaac Tonkin, sitting on an upturned tub, was superintending some repairs to the seine-net in his lugger. He wore a blue coat, but his arms were folded, one hand holding his pipe to his mouth. He threw one glance at Dick, but made no movement, and thenceforth ignored him. Dick strolled up and down. Excitement utterly possessed him; to his fancy Tonkin was deliberately concealing two out of his four buttons. The two visible were of steel. What could he do to make the man unclasp? But it was not necessary to practise any wile. The simplest causes effected what he desired. "Feyther," called Jake Tonkin from the lugger, "fling us a quid o’ yer bacca." "’Tis bad for young stummicks," said the father. "Howsomever, here ’ee be."