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Jerold Wharton sailed for England on the following morning. Restlessly he paced up and down the broad deck of the Mauretania as she slipped majestically down the river and solemnly out to sea. Soon nothing could be seen of the great skyscraper-shadowed city but a blur of golden mist. Other travellers stood and gazed with longing eyes as the city vanished into nothingness, but Jerold Wharton felt no pang of regret at leaving New York. His whole thought and mind was concerned solely with the news he was carrying back to Coningsby.

"Poor old Conny," he muttered wistfully. "Poor old Conny."

And then he went down into his own cabin and smoked cigar after cigar until far into the night, his mind a chaos of strangely conflicting emotions.

During his entire journey he kept entirely alone. His heart was full, and it was with a feeling of helpless sadness that he approached the shores of Zanzibar.

One morning as he came on deck, the continent of Africa loomed up before his gaze like the retreating shadow of night upon the horizon. Dhows floated drowsily in and out of the channel separating the island of Zanzibar from the mainland, their The Actress