If any of these cadets were more than properly fatigued, none
of them betrayed the fact. Their carriage was erect, their step
springy and martial. In ranks their faces were impassive, but
when they filed into the mess hall, seated themselves at table
and glanced about, an orderly Babel broke loose.

At all, that is to say, save one table. That was the table at
which Cadet Captain Richard Prescott sat.

Greg was the first to make the discovery. He turned to Brown
with a remark. Brown glanced at Holmes, nodding slightly. All
the other cadets at that board were eating, their eyes on their
plates.

"What's the matter?" quizzed Holmes. "You're ideas moving slowly?"

Again Brown glanced up at his questioner, but that was all.

"How's the cold lamb, Durville?" questioned Dick.

Durville passed the meat without speaking, nor did he look directly
at Prescott.

Dick and Greg exchanged swift glances. They understood. The
blow had fallen.

_The Silence had been given_!

Dick felt a hot flush mounting to his temples. The blood there