Margaret had given instructions that no one who mentioned her name should ever be rebuffed. Putting the door on the chain—for Leonard’s appearance demanded this—she went through to the smoking-room, which was occupied by Tibby. Tibby was asleep. He had had a good lunch. Charles Wilcox had not yet rung him up for the distracting interview. He said drowsily: “I don’t know. Hilton. Howards End. Who is it?”
“I’ll ask, sir.”
“No, don’t bother.”
“They have taken the car to Howards End,” said the parlourmaid to Leonard.
He thanked her, and asked whereabouts that place was.
“You appear to want to know a good deal,” she remarked. But Margaret had forbidden her to be mysterious. She told him against her better judgment that Howards End was in Hertfordshire.
“Is it a village, please?”
“Village! It’s Mr. Wilcox’s private house—at least, it’s one of them. Mrs. Wilcox keeps her furniture there. Hilton is the village.”
“Yes. And when will they be back?”
“Mr. Schlegel doesn’t know. We can’t know everything, can we?” She shut him out, and went to attend to the telephone, which was ringing furiously.