"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 access. You may examine this piece of paper, Mr. Prescott, if you think that will aid you to throw any light on the matter."
Dick stepped forward, lurching slightly. Most of the silent men of the section took advantage of this slight distraction to shift their feet to new positions. The noise grated in that awful silence.
How Dick's hand shook as he reached for the paper. At first his eyes were too blurred for him to make out clearly what was on the paper. But at last he made it all out.
"I am very sorry, sir. This paper tells me nothing."
Captain Abbott's gaze was fixed keenly on the young man's face. White-faced Prescott, shaking and ghastly looking, showed all the evidences of detected, overwhelmed guilt.
Innocent men often do the same.
"You may return the paper and take your seat, Mr. Prescott."
As Prescott turned away he made a powerful effort to hold his head erect, and to look fearlessly before him.