"I may be very inquisitive," Mr. Milbank said, "but I do wish you'd tell me why you're so anxious to hear all this."
She smiled. "Sheer curiosity, Mr. Milbank. I - I wondered whether he'd have the cheek to come and interview you about it. Apparently he had." She glanced at the clock, and started up. "Oh, Lord, I shall be hideously late if I don't start."
She took her leave of them both and went down to her car. Mr. Milbank accompanied her to the front door, wondering what lay behind her visit, and waved farewell to her from the top of his steps. She let in the clutch, and the car slid forward.
Her suspicion had been a true one, but this afforded her very little satisfaction. It seemed to be just one more link in the chain of evidence against Strange.
"And I ought to tell Peter," she said to herself, slipping past a tram. "It's absolutely wrong of me not to. Michael Strange is nothing to me, nor ever likely to be, and for all I know he may be planning something perfectly dreadful. And it's no good getting sloppy and sentimental, and thinking how a Good Woman's Love might reclaim him, because that's the sort of rot that makes me sick. Besides, I'm not in love with him."
"Aren't you?" Conscience inquired. "Then are you going to tell Peter all you know?"
"I promised I'd say nothing," Margaret argued. "I may have been wrong to do so, but I did, and that's that."
"You didn't promise not to say anything about this visit to Milbank," Conscience pointed out.
"If I see any reason to of course I shall tell Peter," Margaret decided. "But for the present I mean to tackle Strange myself. And it's no good thinking he's the Monk because I don't believe it, and what's more I won't believe it."
"What about him saying that you might get a bad fright?"