"But it dropped from under your handkerchief, Mr. Prescott. Can
you account for that?"

"I cannot, sir."

Captain Abbott looked thoughtfully, seriously, at Cadet Richard
Prescott. The instructor had always liked this young man, and
had deemed him worthy of all trust. Yet what did this evidence
show?

In the meantime the cadets sat staring the tops of their desks,
or the covers of their books. The gaze of each man was stony;
so were his feelings.

Prescott, the soul of honor, caught in such a scrape as this!

But there must be some sensible and satisfactory explanation,
thought at least half of the cadets present.

"Have I permission to ask a question, sir?" asked Dick in an almost
hollow voice.

"Proceed, Mr. Prescott."

"Is the paper in my handwriting, sir?"

"It is not," declared the instructor. "Most of it is in typewriting,
with two figures drawn crudely in ink. There are three or four
typewriting machines on the post to which a cadet may find easy