All day long there had been an inward struggle. Hour by hour the fight had been prolonged. Would honesty win the day? Was Gull leaning upon a strength mightier than his own?
He kept one hand buried in his pocket, always fingering there a something which was the cause of all this mental disturbance. His other hand buttoned and unbuttoned his overcoat with nervous restlessness.
And as he watched, two gentlemen came towards him under the gas lamps. They were walking arm-in-arm, and talking earnestly about shares and stocks, and all those mysterious and fascinating things, that a certain Mr. Weller said "always went up and down in the city."
When Gull saw them he started forward, and looked searchingly into the face of the elder of the two. Then he followed them closely into the station—shuffling along lamely but resolutely.
Twice he put out his hand to touch this gentleman's sleeves, but something stronger than his will seemed to hold him back.
At the platform gate the ticket collector spoke to him.
"What! are you going by the 6.5, Gull?"
"No," he answered; "but I'm bound to have a word with yon gent before he goes."
"If it's a tip you're after, you're on the wrong tack, mate. I know yon gentleman too well." But he let Gull through the gate.
Mr. Kingsley, the elder traveller, was settling himself in a first-class carriage, and leisurely enjoying the delightful employment of lighting his first cigar after a long day's work, when Gull opened the door and looked in.