A pistol lies on the table. He picks up the weapon. There is no hesitancy in his manner. Death has been a matter which he has contemplated for months, and it holds no terror for him.
"If I have sinned against Thee, O, God," he murmurs, "death would be too mild a punishment for me. I would deserve to be everlastingly damned, to live on this earth and bear the denunciation of my fellowmen.
"My death, like those of the committee who have already fulfilled their pledge, is not suicide, but part of the inevitable price of liberty."
The pistol is raised to his temple. Then a thought flashes upon him. "Your death will come as an ante-climax to the election. It may be the means of defeating the Independents."
This thought causes him to lower the pistol.
"To-morrow," he mutters.
At daybreak Nevins is at the headquarters and remains near the chief operator, eager for every detail of the election.
"What is the weather prediction?" he inquires.
"Generally clear; light local rains on Pacific seaboard."
"I am most intensely interested in the result of the election," Nevins confided to the operator, to explain his presence at headquarters. "I have come all the way from San Francisco to congratulate Trueman on his election."