"Greg, I can't leave quarters," muttered Dick huskily, as he threw
himself down at his desk and began to write rapidly. "You'll
have to attend to sending this telegram for me."

"On the jump!" assented Greg,

The telegram was addressed to Laura Bentley, and read:

"Don't come to West Point tomorrow. My letter will explain."

"I'll send it before the drawing lesson," Greg uttered, and vanished.

Confined to quarters in close arrest, Cadet Prescott put in more
than two miserable hours endeavoring to get that letter written.
But he couldn't get it penned. Then a knock came the door, and
a telegram was handed in. It read:

"Wife and girls have left for shopping trip in New York. Don't
know where to reach them."

It was signed by Dr. Bentley. The yellow paper fluttered from
Prescott's hands to the floor. Mechanically he picked it up and
carried it to his study table.

"I can't stop them," he muttered dismally. "Nor shall I be out
of close arrest by that time, either. There's nothing I can do.
I can't even see them---and I've been looking forward to this
for months!"

Again Dick Prescott buried his head in his arms at the study table.