“There is a room vacant,” admitted the spirit of the house unwillingly.
“I’d like to see it.”
As he spoke, he was mounting the stairs; she must, perforce, follow. On the third floor she passed him and led the way to a small, morosely papered front room, almost glaringly clean.
“All right, if I can have a work-table in it and if it isn’t too much,” he said, after one comprehensive glance around.
“The price is five dollars a week.”
Had Banneker but known it, this was rather high. The Brashear rooming-house charged for its cleanliness, physical and moral. “Can I move in at once?” he inquired.
“I don’t know you nor anything about you, Mr. Banneker,” she replied, but not until they had descended the stairs and were in the cool, dim parlor. At the moment of speaking, she raised a shade, as if to help in the determination.
“Is that necessary? They didn’t ask me when I registered at the hotel.”
Mrs. Brashear stared, then smiled. “A hotel is different. Where are you stopping?”
“At the St. Denis.”