It was precisely the point that Carlisle Heth had been trying to establish, for a long, long time.  Yet now, in the moment of triumph, her gaze suddenly wavered from his; and she heard herself, to her own secret confusion, saying hurriedly and weakly: 

“At least, I understood—­some one told me—­you hadn’t....  Of course you—­you might have given something, and—­this person not have known....”

But Jack Dalhousie’s friend only answered, in the same detached way: 

“It’s unpardonable, my detaining you this way.  I’d no idea ...  May I show you the way up—­”

“No—­no! Please wait!...”

He waited, silent.  Carlisle, having paused long enough to take firm hold of her consciousness of vast superiorities, resumed more strongly: 

“Perhaps I ought to explain why I—­thought that.  I was told that the whole thing had fallen through, when a—­a wealthy subscriber stepped in and secretly gave a very large amount—­had bought the building for you.  So I—­I naturally thought—­”

“It was absolutely natural.  In fact, it’s quite true....  Shall we go to the meeting now?”

But no, something in her required that he must state in plain words the fact that would justify her accusation, alleged by his eyes to be so unjust:  namely, that it was (practically) a member of her family who had done this splendid thing for him.  Yet she went rather further than she had intended when she said, glancing away over the queer dusky court: 

“I will tell you.  Some one gave us to understand—­not he himself, of course,—­that it was a friend of ours who had done this ...  Mr. Hugo Canning.”

He made no answer.

An uncontrollable desire carried the girl yet further.  She said, in a weakening voice: 

“Was it?”

In saying this, she brought her eyes back fully to her victim.  And if ever guilt was written large upon a human countenance, it was upon the face of V. Vivian at that moment.  Brightly flushed he was, with an embarrassment painful to witness.  And yet, so strange is the way of life, the joy of victory once again seemed to slip from the clutch of Cally Heth.  What house of cards was this she had pulled down upon herself?...

“Really, you must appreciate,” the man was saying, in a light, dry voice, “I shouldn’t feel at liberty to betray a secret of that sort, even if I knew.  I’m sorry, but—­”

But the girl’s sickening sensations of falling through space broke out in faltering speech: 

“Oh!...  Do you mean ...”  She halted, to steady herself, and took a fresh start, no better than the first:  “Do you mean—­that—­”

“I mean only, Miss Heth, that I haven’t the slightest idea what this is all about.  I thought,” he said, in a voice of increasing hardness, “that we were talking of the Works.  If, at another time, you can give me a few minutes—­”