iograph pictures. Night after night the crowds congregate
to view the pictorial history of the Plutocratic National Prosperity.
That which arguments cannot do in the way of weaning men from party
prejudice the picture crusade accomplishes.

One of the side lights of the great drama that is being enacted is the
sentiment that develops for the Committee of Forty. Memorial societies
in the states from which the several committeemen hailed, are formed to
give the martyrs, as the forty are now called, a decent burial.
Thirty-nine of the martyrs are thus honored by public interment.

The one missing committeeman is William Nevins. He is supposed to be
buried in the wrecked tunnel under the English channel. It is impossible
to repair the damage done by the explosion; futile efforts are made by
sub-marine divers to locate the exact point at which the break in the
tunnel was made. The action of the water has totally obliterated the
breach. So to the public this watery grave must remain the resting place
of the genius who conceived the plan for the restoration of the rights
of man.

All of the details of the committee come to light through the papers
found on the body of Hendrick Stahl, secretary of the committee. The
fact that Nevins was alone responsible for the plan of annihilation and
that Trueman knew absolutely nothing of it, is incontestibly
established.

This takes away the last argument of the Plutocrats who seek to connect
Trueman with the act of Proscription.

And Nevins? What of him?

He has not kept his pledge to the committee by dying with the
Transgressor who was assigned to him. His pledge to God, to follow the
committee the day after the atonement, has not been kept.

When October fourteenth dawned, the news of the uprising of the people
of Wilkes-Barre and of the part played by Trueman and Ethel, were read
by Nevins from the cable dispatches at Calais.

A fear arose in his heart that the plan for the election of Trueman
might fail. He delayed ending his life and hastened to New York. Upon
his arrival he went as a lodger to a room in a lofty Bowery hotel. From
this watch-tower he reviewed the political field. "I shall redeem my
pledge to-morrow," he said to himself each day.

The night would find him irresolute, not for his fear of death, but for
the dread that some unexpected occurrence might arise to thwart the
people in their effort to carry the election by the peaceable use of the
ballot.

On the