Chatham's party needed him, his country needed him, his time needed him, mankind and human progress needed him. If he pardoned Whalen, what was to become of him? The conviction of Brokoski's murderer alone could save him from such apparent stultification, here on the eve of an election at which, in the foolish phrase of modern politics, he sought vindication. Was this conviction possible? The bare thought halted Gilman beside the governor. He laid a hand on his shoulder.
"These abstruse propositions wouldn't stand before a jury in a criminal court," he said. "Let Whalen stay."
The governor lifted his head.
"But you just now said that he was not Brokoski's murderer."
Gilman hesitated. When he spoke, he said:
"A jury of twelve sworn men has said that he is."
Two days after the private secretary's return, the newspapers were full of stories concerning his movements. Whalen's picture was exploited, correspondents sought the governor for interviews, and the Courier charged that, in his desperation, he in-
