“It was very brave of you. Most praiseworthy. We appreciate it, all of us. Yes, indeed. It’s very painful, Mr. Banneker. I never expected to—to—indeed, I couldn’t have believed—” Mrs. Brashear’s plump little hands made gestures so fluttery and helpless that her lodger was moved to come to her aid.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Brashear? What’s troubling you?”
“If you could make it convenient,” said she tremulously, “when your month is up. I shouldn’t think of asking you before.”
“Are you giving me notice?” he inquired in amazement.
“If you don’t mind, please. The notoriety, the—the—your being arrested. You were arrested, weren’t you?”
“Oh, yes. But the coroner’s jury cleared—”
“Such a thing never happened to any of my guests before. To have my house in the police records,” wept Mrs. Brashear. “Really, Mr. Banneker, really! You can’t know how it hurts one’s pride.”
“I’ll go next week,” said the evicted one, divided between amusement and annoyance, and retired to escape another outburst of grief.
Now that the matter was presented to him, he was rather glad to be leaving. Quarters somewhere in mid-town, more in consonance with his augmented income, suggested themselves as highly desirable. Since the affray he had been the object of irksome attentions from his fellow lodgers. It is difficult to say whether he found the more unendurable young Wickert’s curiosity regarding details, Hainer’s pompous adulation, or Lambert’s admiring but jocular attitude. The others deemed it their duty never to refrain from some reference to the subject wherever and whenever they encountered him. The one exception was Miss Westlake. She congratulated him once, quietly but with warm sincerity; and when next she came to his door, dealt with another topic.
“Mrs. Brashear tells me that you are leaving, Mr. Banneker.”