With elbows on knees, and with dainty fingers entwined under her chin, Hilda Muirhead sat and gazed at this handsome young man--his nationality mattered not to her--as he told the story that "made him appear foolish." It was incredible to her that a man who boldly ran down a slum, in a hateful place like Khartoum, to hammer a great big ugly black man, who was beating a woman, should be considered foolish by any one, much more so by himself. The thought, a woman's thought, came to her--"he did it in the dark, too. What curious people these Englishmen are. How they love to ridicule themselves and one another. Fancy being considered foolish to risk his life for helping a woman." Hilda Muirhead gazed with admiration, whilst Mr Muirhead rose, crossed the room, and, seizing Raife's hand, said: "Mr Remington, that's a fine story. We shouldn't call you a fool in the United States. We should call you a hero and give you the time of your life. I'm your friend, sir, if you will allow me that honour." Raife stammered and blushed. Hilda Muirhead saw that blush and admired it, for there are not many men who blush in the United States. In an effort to change the subject, which was tiresome to him, Raife said, "By the by, Mr Muirhead, I owe you an apology." "Well, now, father," said Hilda, laughingly, "I wonder what Mr Remington will apologise for next?" Raife continued, smiling: "Oh, this isn't so foolish as the other. Only I omitted to give you my card, when we met. I hadn't got one with me at the moment." He handed his card to Mr Muirhead, and, turning to Hilda, said: "May I present you with one also, Miss Muirhead?" Father and daughter read the little neat piece of pasteboard: Sir Raife Remington, Bart., Aldborough Park, Tunbridge Wells. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN. MR MUIRHEAD AND HILDA DISCOVER RAIFE'S IDENTITY. When Raife had returned to his room after the pleasantest evening of his life, he meditated, as is the wont of impulsive young men after an event. The night was very hot and, in spite of the clear starlit sky overhead, it was sultry. He donned a light cashmere dressing-gown and walked out to the balcony which overlooked the old town. Seating himself in a wicker chair, he lit a cigar and talked to himself, a practice of elderly people and those who are mentally perturbed. He talked to himself softly, in short, disjointed sentences. He muttered, with a curl of his lips: "Gilda! Ha! ha! That was a passing fancy. I was a fool. I'm glad I got out of it as well as I did. It was good of that fellow, Herrion, to steer me out of the mess I was landing myself into. Fancy marrying a `lady' burglar."